The granite mountain was silent,
The wind sounded on the plain,
Birds flew their bent,
Fine horses snorted and strained.
How lofty the mountain,
How low the plain,
How dear the heart’s fountain,
Would it wither in the heights?
Or be scattered upon the plain?
Did they escape the ashes of desire, by
Burning in its flame?
Being divine, is it not a sacred thing,
There, in the heart of spring?