O’er the yellow crocus on the lawn
Floats a light white butterfly.
Breezes waft it! See, ’t is gone!
Duska, little soul, when didst thou die?
Saturnian mother! why dost thou devour
Thy offspring, who by loving thee are curst?
Why must they fear thee who would fain be first
Across the Bay are low-lying cliffs,
Where stand fishermen's cottages:
I can barely distinguish them with the naked eye.
O, beautiful Vision of Peace,
Beam bright in the eyes of Man!
The host of the meek shall increase,
The Prophets are leading the van.