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