Who knows the true meaning of serenity?
Who knows the liquidious repose?
The place where a lull is a century
As above the waves open and close.

Yea, even a king is a mute,
For the element is not his own.
Neither his pages, his lyre, or lute
Can produce even a whispering tone.

The state is luxuriously quiet
The hubbub's been left far behind
For there is luxury even in reticence
And among rarities known to Mankind.