Scriptured in the features of your face, and in the hues of delicate

Which painteth thee with the colour of antique gold

Throughout dim and narrow lanes, aery surges of cold

Bring to mee my Ancestor's voice, whispering mysterious words



Tears of white wax many candles shed in solemn quiet

As I admire the Romanic stone glowing like ardent embers

Beautiful stained-glass windows represent legends of yore

Thruh the rosette I behold the crescente moon in the enchanting violet of dusk



Shall I question the ancestral stars

And the earthly spirit of the mounts

Thruh the forest and its tangled boughs

Hear the distant echoes of the past...