Crying: Light and a fire, We have travelled far Over the plowed fields' mire. Will ye lift the bar?
Would ye have us go all night On the windy ways, Who were strong men once in the light Of our own days?
Ours are the fields ye plow, And ye sow our wheat: Let us stretch our hands to the glow Of the warm, red peat.
We, who have lain in earth For a long dark year, Crave for our own old hearth, And ye will not hear.
THE FOUNT
O quiring voices of the sleepless springs, O night of beauty, calm and odorous, O bird of Thrace, that ever ceaseless sings The passion of thy music amorous,
My heart is but a spring that, with its prayer, Is choric through an April plenilune; My music but a rapture in the air, A nightingale loud-voiced in leafy June.