friend poem

when the veil from the eyes is lifted
among the mountains i wandered
made up of loveliness alone
our pleasant moments fly
a mist was driving down
did you ever hear of
death's nobility again
the shadows of the ships
up from the meadows rich with corn
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
high-born race
who will be naming the wind
there are three ways in which men take
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies