Three great men

Ein edler Stolz in allen Zügen,
Auf seiner Stirn Gedankenspur,
Er konnte jedes Herz besiegen,
Bertrand de Born, der Troubadour.

Es kirrten seine süßen Töne
Die Löwin des Plantagenets;
Die Tochter auch, die beiden Söhne,
Er sang sie alle in sein Netz.

Wie er den Vater selbst betörte!
In Tränen schmolz des Königs Zorn,
Als er ihn lieblich reden hörte,
Den Troubadour, Bertrand de Born.

As if he listened. Silence. Something far - 
We pause but do not hear it anymore.
And he is star. And other mighty stars
That we do not perceive,  surround his core.

Oh, he is all. And do we wait indeed
That he might see us? Should he be in need?
Though we dropped to the ground like wind-swept fruit,
He would stay deep and inert as a brute.

For what which tears us down before his feet,
Revolves in him for many millions years.
He who forgets that which to us appears,
And who beholds what censures our conceit.