BITTER WATERS
In a dense wood, a drear wood.
Dark, water is flowing;
Deep, deep, beyond sounding,
A flood ever flowing.
There harbours no wild bird.
No wanderer strays there;
Wreathed in mist, sheds pale Ishtar
Her sorrowful rays there.
Take thy net; cast thy line;
Manna sweet be thy baiting;
Time’s desolate ages
Shall still find thee waiting
For quick fish to rise there.
Or butterfly wooing.
Or flower’s honeyed beauty.
Or wood-pigeon cooing.
Inland wellsprings are sweet;
But to hps, parched and dry.
Salt, salt is the savour
Of these; Sunt their sigh:
Bitter Babylon’s waters!
Zion, distant and fair!
We hanged up our harps
On the trees that are there.
19
