As the sturgeons leap in glee:
Ocean's merging still is distant,
Shouldest thou be sad, like me?
"Are thy spume-drifts tears, O Mother,
Tears for those that are no more?
Dost thou haste to pass by, weeping,
This thine own beloved shore?"
Then uprose on high Araxes,
Flung in air her spumy wave,
And from out her depths maternal