Chanting your lays in the morn of the year,
Though Armenia, my country, be wasted and sere,
And mourns for her maidens who never shall sing,
Yet a storm, did it come from that desolate land,
Would awaken a joy that ye cannot command.
RAPHAEL PATKANIAN.
FLY, LAYS OF MINE!
Fly, lays of mine, but not to any clime