  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 lips, parched and dry, Salt, salt is the savour Of these; faint their sigh. Zion, distant and fair. We hanged up our harps On the trees that are there.
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