Songs of the Spirit

Faint at his anger who compels the herd To fall upon the waste, so fierce and dry That none may pass it, not the very bird. Throughout the vast expanse no single sound is heard. Only the moaning of the dying ox, And my parched cry for water from cracked lips ; In vain the stern impenetrable rocks Mock my complaint : the empty pitcher dips Into the empty well ; the water drips, Oozing in tiny drops caught up again By the sun’s heat, that brooks not his eclipse And dissipates the welcome clouds of rain. God ! have Thou pity soon on this amazing pain. If but a lion stirred with distant roar The silence of the world, perchance at last I might find honey in his mouth, and store His tawny flanks until the sand were past. Nay, but these wastes intolerably vast, Like glowing copper raging for the heat, Stretch and stretch on and leave me all aghast 46