Though the world alters swiftly

Like patterns of cloud,

All that’s perfected

Returns to its ancient place.

Beyond the change and departure,

Further away, and freer,

Your prelude still endures

God of the lyre.

Suffering is not grasped,

Love is not learned,

Nor is that which takes us far-off

In death ever unveiled.

The song alone, over the earth,

Celebrates, sanctifies.