Always new, always savory, rich and chilling: that is the taste of the Lethe; beyond hated Styx, sorrowful Acheron, wailing Cocytus and burning Phlegethon it lies and there in farthest Elysium I wish to be
Clear the water is, as the silver laced gravel of its bed and tasting it one loses want for all but the bliss of the sunlit fields
There I wish to be, to dwell by the river in deep oblivion, to drink from its rippling flow and sit and sleep and forget, to lie on its grassy banks and know nothing but the vision before my eyes
Such is my wish, those happy glades
And my life its course run
And my children filling the earth
And all the energy of my spirit spent
And the taste of the Lethe my only desire
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