The waters of the pleasant flows
Murmur old forgotten tales.
Here was a jungle before the populace.
So I have heard the people say.
There was a city of décor, fashion.
Time, alas, has left no sign.
I am the heart from the School of Sorrow
Whom for centuries bliss will mourn.
Imagination has often sighted
What Reason calls the Boundless.
Often, sitting deep in thought
I set up delightful fancies.
Words change their meanings
In the crowded pangs of creation.
O the bleak expanse of Chance,
Can there be a Second to my dreams?
Under the black drapes of the eve
Who is mourned by the pouring brooks?
Wherefrom do the beams descend?
To where do steps of stars lead?
A gale blows from the mountains.
Autumn leaves swirl away.
Beneath the bustle of the new age
Old echoes are buried.