Oh, who can ever gaze his fill, farmer and fisherman say, on native shore and local hill, Gragging rim more callous on the hand, Father's grandfather stood upon this land, and hear the pilgrims from our loin shall stand. So farmer and fisherman say in their fortunate heyday, but their soft answer drifts across empty catch or harvest loss, or an unlucky may. The earth is an oyster with nothing inside it, not to be born is the best for man. The end of toil is a bay leaf's order, throw down the matric and dance while you can. O life's too short for friends who share, travelers think in their hearts. The city is common bed, the air, the mountain bivouac and the bathing beach, where incidents drive reday from each memory or gesture and with his speech. So travelers think in their hearts, till malleys or seconds and spots them from their constant humour, and slightly deaths coerce of rumour in the silent starts. A friend is the old ale, tail of narcissus, not to be born is the best for man. An active partner in something disgraceful, change your partner, dance while you can. O stretch your hands across the sea, the impassioned lover cries, stretch them towards your harm and me, our grass is green and sensual, our brief bed, the stream sings at its foot, to net its head, the mild and vegetarian beasts are fed. So the impassioned lover cries, till his storm of pleasure dies, from the bedpost and the rocks, deaths in teasing echo mocks, and his voice replies. The greater the love of the more false to its object, not to be born is the best for man. After the kiss comes the impulse to throttle, break the embraces, dance while you can. I see the guilty world forgiven, Dreamer and Drunkard sing, the ladders let down out of heaven, the laurels springing from the martyr's blood, the children skipping where the weepers stood, the lovers natural and the beasts all good. So Dreamer and Drunkard sing, till day their sobriety bring, parrot-wise with death's reply, from welping fear and nesting lie, woods and their echoes ring. The desires of the heart that has crooked its corkscrews, not to be born is the best for man, the second best is a formal order, the dance is pattern, dance while you can. Dance, dance for the figure is easy, the tune is catching and will not stop. Dance to the stars come down with the rafters, dance, dance, dance to you drop. Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, dance.