All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.
Everything we look upon is blest.
And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.
All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
Ah, let us kiss each other's eyes,/And laugh our love away.
How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?