Dost Thou think of us and our meadows,
Lord, Who hast left us and our meadows?
In shining pastures of the sky
Thou walkest, Lord, ascended high.
The stars are flowers about Thy feet,
And looking up to Thee we see
The River flowing silently—
The Milky River, broad and sweet
As Rother River here below,
While planets the dim marshes strow,