The golden sun droops low, the evening sky grows dim,
But yet the final blazing rays gleam from the lake:
The waters ashen blue reflect the firmament
While by the shore turned verdant, patterned on the trees.
Within the fading glades and bubbling, roaring streams
There seems a certain peace, a thousand thoughts quite strange:
The endless mountains vast, intangible in range,
The stars that pierce the gloom, all glowing from beyond.
But every mount's yet real, it's peak capped with white snow
While ponds and creeks burst forth with splashing fish below.
The heart desires to soar, these mysteries to scry,
Arcadian valleys lost, where not but birds yet fly.
But beauty is oft scorned; this realm is scars and weeds.
For broken mortal souls, good things are held as naught.
As darkness spreads its grip, all men who live are caught:
'Tis but alone the dead who 'scape the tyrant's fold.
But through the pain of life, through toil and trivial deeds
God's mark remains e'er grand, eternal to behold.
