See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds, With joy and love triumphing.
Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.
Must I thus leave thee, Paradise?-thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades?
Who shall silence all the airs and madrigals that whisper softness in chambers?
Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.