Huub de Lange - The Garden of Proserpine - текст песни (слова)

Here, where the world is quiet; 
          Here, where all trouble seems 
 Dead winds' and spent waves' riot 
          In doubtful dreams of dreams; 
 I watch the green field growing 
 For reaping folk and sowing, 
 For harvest-time and mowing, 
          A sleepy world of streams. 
 
 I am tired of tears and laughter, 
          And men that laugh and weep; 
 Of what may come hereafter 
          For men that sow to reap: 
 I am weary of days and hours, 
 Blown buds of barren flowers, 
 Desires and dreams and powers 
          And everything but sleep. 
 
 Here life has death for neighbour, 
          And far from eye or ear 
 Wan waves and wet winds labour, 
          Weak ships and spirits steer; 
 They drive adrift, and whither 
 They wot not who make thither; 
 But no such winds blow hither, 
          And no such things grow here. 
 
 No growth of moor or coppice, 
          No heather-flower or vine, 
 But bloomless buds of poppies, 
          Green grapes of Proserpine, 
 Pale beds of blowing rushes 
 Where no leaf blooms or blushes 
 Save this whereout she crushes 
          For dead men deadly wine. 
 
 (The original poems consists of twelve strophes. In this setting the first four have been used.)