Silence and sleep like fields of amaranth lie

Very old are the woods
And the buds that break out of the briers boughs
When March winds wake

So old with their beauty are
Oh no man knows through what wild centuries 
Roves back the rose

Very old are the brooks
And the rills that rise
Where snow sleeps cold beneath the azure skies

Sing such a history [bad word] and gone

We wake and whisper a while
But the day gone by

Very old are we men
Our dreams are tales told in dim Eden
By Eve’s nightingales.