The cities are scattered over the world like anthills,
Every one of them is full of trouble and toil,
And their makers run to and fro within them.
Abundance of riches is laid up in their treasuries,
But they are tormented with the fear of want,
The cry of the poor in their streets is exceeding bitter.
Their inhabitants are driven by blind perturbations,
They whirl sadly in the fever of haste,
Seeking they know not what, they pursue it fiercely.
The air is heavy-laden with their breathing,
The sound of their coming and going is never still,
Even in the night I hear them whispering and crying.
Beside every ant-hill I behold a monster crouching:
This is the ant-lion Death,
He thrusteth forth his tongue and the people perish.
O God of wisdom thou hast made the country:
Why hast thou suffered man to make the town?
Then God answered, Surely I am the maker of man:
And in the heart of man I have set the city.
THE FRIENDLY TREES
I will sing of the bounty of the big trees,
They are the green tents of the Almighty,
He hath set them up for comfort and for shelter.
Their cords hath he knotted in the earth,
He hath driven their stakes securely,
Their roots take hold of the rocks like iron.