I Travelled the weary tribes of willow, mellow the climes of starry up above fellow; the waning grace shined with no diffidence, well oh well the white berry ripes in confidence
Follow the path which goes to the lake of the wild, One I spend as a child, some thousand nights staring at the Argos with starry eyes, painted and clothed by the skies of thousand nights with pearly whites, soul tainted and clotted, one cries and dies for the beauty is of no mild