Silence!  
His body shall be still!
Shall none soul be his!
Yet, seeth! For him:
A man who maketh thee wonder.
Such carves!

Descent, unto the lands,
Surround o' paths, nor greenscapes.
Descent, unto the lands,
Surround, o honor!
Yet some shall jest about thee?
For them a pity!

Some shall crumble,
For thee, thee shall die o' honor!
So as to be lost,
The sun doth not want thee.
Yet shall us find thee:
Be told eyes' conqueror!
Or shall thee be our jest?

Some shall appraise thee,
What a shallness for our kindled eye!
It's carved, carved each by our hands!
"Our blood shall be thine!" Sacrifice!
"Our man shall be thine!" Sacrifice!
"Our treasure shall be thine!" Praise!
"Such intricate lines, o carver!" Praise!
For thee shall giveth not a jest! Praise!

Now wouldst thou wonder?
Skies do makest thou wonder.
Lands do makest thou adore.
Art thou carving o birds o' skies?
Or:
Art thou to lo and carve his' again?