In a dense wood, a drear wood.
⁠Dark, water is flowing;
Deep, deep, beyond sounding,
⁠A flood ever flowing.

There harbours no wild bird.
⁠No wanderer strays there;
Wreathed in mist, sheds pale Ishtar
⁠Her sorrowful rays there.

Take thy net; cast thy line;
⁠Manna sweet be thy baiting;
Time’s desolate ages
⁠Shall still find thee waiting

For quick fish to rise there.
⁠Or butterfly wooing.
Or flower’s honeyed beauty.
⁠Or wood-pigeon cooing.

Inland wellsprings are sweet;
⁠But to hps, parched and dry.
Salt, salt is the savour
⁠Of these; Sunt their sigh:

Bitter Babylon’s waters!
⁠Zion, distant and fair!
We hanged up our harps
⁠On the trees that are there.