Do not investigate my origin, but take account into my sort,
The fruit is what you taste, never the stalk, even if seems of gold...
My ancestors with shanks and scythes were fighters
I’m handling now the quill, thousand-fold much harder.
The clearest proof that I am crowned
Are you, and the allow to let yourself beloved
More like a friend, with that passion that covers
The worship of the close everlasting lovers
I’m singing thus my luck I’m heaving prothalamions,
But on behalf of bow that I submit with meekness
I pick up from the branches azure, rays, and roses
My master, the chosen one, to guerdon with glories:

My own body and mind-my nation of souls, dreams, longing,
Today I name you over them, in laudation, ay-greatest king.


Sunday, 5 December 1954