“The Rock!” he cried, “find ye the Rock of Song!”
And still they found it not. Then the gaunt chief,
His long locks hoary with the frost of years,
Girded himself, and turned his tottering steps
Abroad in the soft lengthening of the dusk
Athwart a woodland close, and saw and heard
A little maid, her pitcher held at poise,
Singing an old lament in minors clear
[p 4]
]And plaintive as the twilight, words that voiced
The poignant, passionate yearning of the soul.