When flies the roc he shakes the world,
In mid air his weakened wings are furled.
The wind he’s raised still stirs the sea,
He hangs his left wing on sun-side tree.
Posterity mine, hear, O, hear!
Confucius dead, who’ll shed a tear?
When flies the roc he shakes the world,
In mid air his weakened wings are furled.
The wind he’s raised still stirs the sea,
He hangs his left wing on sun-side tree.
Posterity mine, hear, O, hear!
Confucius dead, who’ll shed a tear?
