break up poem

when freedom from her mountain height
uplifting, as the wind blew
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
let us pity those who are better off than we are
our pleasant moments fly
do the boys and girls still go
under dusky laurel leaf
i walk down the garden paths
out of me unworthy and unknown
sleep, gray brother of death
this is the arsenal
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies