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