God, making roses, made my face
⁠As a rose filled up full with red.
My prows made sharp the straitened seas
From Pontus to that Chersonese
⁠Whereon the ebbed Asian stream is shed.
My hair was as sweet scent that drips;
Love's breath begun about my lips
⁠Kindled the lips of people dead.

My strength was like no strength of man's,
⁠My face like day, my breast like spring.
My fame was felt in the extreme land
That hath sunshine on the one hand
⁠And on the other star-shining.
Yea, and the wind there fails of breath;
Yea, and there life is waste like death;
⁠Yea, and there death is a glad thing.

In the spent years whose speech is dim,
⁠Whose raiment is the dust and death,
My stately body without stain
Shone as the shining race of rain