Waking from tender sleep,
  We men that go down for a livin’ in ships to the sea,—­
  We met on Nature’s stage,
  What hast thou done, O womanhood of France,
  What is Fortune, what is Fame? 
  What makes the lingering Night so cling to thee? 
  What shall I give for thee,
  What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night,
  When down the stair at morning
  When May bedecks the naked trees
  When Staevoren town was in its prime
  When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark
  When tulips bloom in Union Square,
  When to the garden of untroubled thought
  Where’s your kingdom, little king? 
  Who knows how many thousand years ago
  Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul,
  Who watched the worn-out Winter die? 
  Winter on Mount Shasta,
  With eager heart and will on fire,
  With memories old and wishes new
  With two bright eyes, my star, my love
  Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls

  Ye gods of battle, lords of fear,
  Yes, it was like you to forget,
  You dare to say with perjured lips,
  You only promised me a single hour: 
  Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers;