Lay ruined under rain and sliding snows.
Then day and night my thoughts were with the saint
Whose poor hut clung to yonder treacherous slope:
My dreams, my tears, my prayers were all for him.
Not till the flood subsided, and again
A watery sun shone forth, my prayers prevailed
Upon my father, and he went with me
To seek the holy man. "Just God!" he cried,
And I, with both hands pressed against mine eyes,
Burst into sobs. No hermitage was there: