Amidst the arms, war, fire, fury and rage
which have the haughty Frenchman so oppressed,
and when the air is most confused and thick,
there by love's fiercest fires am I enclosed.

I look up at the sky, the trees, the flowers,
and in them find my suffering expressed;
for on the coldest, most inclement day
sprout fresh and turn to green again my woes.

I say aloud, in tears: "Oh springtime sweet,
when will it be that I might see my hope,
all green, some real peace in my soul inspire?"

But I fear that my cruel fate my death
will mandate when I'm so far from my love,
Amidst the war, rage, fury, arms, and fire.