No Lethean ease, but such a mood as craves
For naught in earth and heaven, just to breathe
The simple air of our reality
Like creatures of the season, — earthy, and
Made for the earth, at one with all things here;
So in the generation of ourselves
To have the certainty of peace, and find
The natural favour of our functioning
Sufficient till the end ensue.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem