PITILESS DARTS of fire strike a thirst pang in the heart of the sky.
Nights are sleepless, days long and languorous, scorched with heat.
I hear the tired doves crooning with plaintive notes
from behind the withered boughs,
and I watch the sky for the triumphant storm
to flood with its caress the waiting earth.
Come thirst-quenching water!
Well out in liquid rapture, rending the bosom of the hard!
From the mysterious dark leap out in overflowing streams,
Come, you who are pure!
The sun waits to welcome you, for you are his playmate.
His lyric of light wakens golden songs in your heart.
Come, you who are radiant!
What magic spell has the desert demon cast on you,
and made you captive with his fetter of rocks?
Break your prison walls; come running out with your current,
free and dancing.
Come, you who are strong!

THE BIRDSONG is the echo of the morning light back from the earth.

I ASK NO reward for the songs I sang you. I shall be content if they live through the night, until Dawn, like a shepherd-maiden, calls away the stars, in alarm at the sun.
But there were moments when you sang your songs to me, and as my pride knows, my Poet, you will ever remember that I listened and lost my heart.