"I that in old season wyth reeds oten harmonye whistled
My rural sonnet: from forrest flitted (I) forced
Thee sulcking swincker thee soyle, thoghe craggie, to sunder.
A labor and a trauaile too plowswayns hertelye welcoom."
—Stanyhurst's Aeneid via
One of my Volapük poems: "Neif tü Reinüp" ('Knife at Raintime')
Fidil pefalöl dese lusil,
O lecütel, tobuls no dönu
olükömons is lienetiks.
Exilonok mekavamüster
nesinifodio sembal, e
mutob gegivön ad ol voli
kölöfikum keli älärnob
da logs ola, voli de fil kel
päfanon fa ob de oliks muds
tel, e voli dolas luplikün
in ola lad keli ädünob.
(Ort fallen from the sorry sky, O great deceiver, Mad Octobers will not arrive here again. The artificial mystery has banished itself to some meaninglessness or other, & i must give you back the world more colorful i learned through your eyes, the world of fire that was caught by me from your mouths twain, & the world of most wolfish griefs in your heart which i served.)
Accent always on the last syllable.
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