What heathen mons of churning breath,
in ferity spurn who, writhing death;
can’st in retort to such howls of they,
serve madness to those mad astray.
Fore these thunderous furies ground
to desperate fools such luring sounds,
beware the gods of men less meant
Sierra! the gods of dreams misspent.
Every path that leadeth unto my lovers home,
resplendent tis with flowers, scent of flowers red,
as countless currants droop where ever I do roam,
among them sweetest faith, tis where I am thus lead.
I shalt bequeath my thoughts only
unto of ye who cannot but
waitest patient to reside in me,
Only thou shalt know my words!
For in thy soul ye who have faith
but veil it in the darkest shade,
knowest ye for I am the bough,
If thou fadest shalt thou in me!