A simple world and life do wait,
Transparent, warm and joy-filled land ...
The evening cloaks the soft debate
Of fences, neighbors, girlish fate,
As gentle bees their hum expand.
So hard and solemn are our days,
The bitter moments worshipped rites;
When suddenly a reckless gale
Rips through our words before their flight –
Yet never do we dream of more
Than plush cement of woe and fame,
The bluest ice, wide river shores,
The dark and sunless gardens torn,
The Muse's voice, though faint, untamed.