The tribe prophetic with the eyes of fire Went forth last night; their little ones at rest Each on his mother's back, with his desire Set on the ready treasure of her breast.
Laden with shining arms the men-folk tread By the long wagons where their goods lie hidden; They watch the heaven with eyes grown wearied Of hopeless dreams that come to them unbidden.
The grasshopper, from out his sandy screen, Watching them pass redoubles his shrill song; Dian, who loves them, makes the grass more green,
And makes the rock run water for this throng Of ever-wandering ones whose calm eyes see Familiar realms of darkness yet to be.
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