Birth of the word is by agony molded,
Through earthly life it is quietly going,
It is a stranger, which drinks from the golden
Pitcher the drops of the savagesâ?? mourning.
...
I know: to the trees, but not to us,
Perfection of the life is given, whole.
And on the Earth â?? the sister of the stars â??
We live in exile, while they do at home.
...
In the days when the God eternal
Was declining face to the new world,
By the Word they stopped the sunâ??s inferno,
And destroyed the towns by the Word. ...
Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant;
Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant;
Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.
Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion;
A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration;
A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion.