Trees for shelter and vines for honeyed fruit,
The moon for the sun, the dusk for the dawn,
Seeds for saplings, the felled nurse for the shoot.
My Evening Star makes the stygian gone.
Youthful beauty is not withered, but aged,
Your lithe, young body is no longer yours;
Wealth that you once dreamt, away like time, fades,
But a mother’s ark sees Eve’s gift ensured.
Training him up in the ways he should go:
Discipler, man-maker, dead to yourself;
Sure, cultivator, patiently you grow
Aethlings into men, no man for himself.
You make our children into kings and queens,
Their mother and father honored and seen.
Awake! Put on strength! 