For those whom much is given, much is ever lost

Thou mayest lose thy faith on men, but never in thine host

The fleeting and suffering soul

The gentle soul, the fragrant soul

From the divine lilies I picked

In the garden of your wit

Where did the winds chase it

This adorable lilies’ spirit?

Is it no more a perfume that remains

Its celestial sweetness

Of the days when you enveloped me

Within a supernatural mist

Made of hope, sympathy

Of peace and bliss?