Thou left thy world like hermits, seeking splendourFrom existence and from every evil's breath;
Thou left thy dreams without a trace of grief;What befell thee? Was it some secret hest?
How didst thou choose a life of poverty content?And how did that steep, arduous path allure?
Upon the pastures fair whose soil is pure,Did fellowship and humankind pursue thee?
Dost thou hear bleating on their margins true,Or hearst thou song, and part of it is spell?
And of the wonders I beheld—a shepherdessWhom nights treat harshly, yet she breaks her fast;
Art thou a shepherdess in desert vast,Or a rose-garden where bloom both flower and light?
Light wrapped her in its fairest ornament,And two allurements graced her—noble, innocent;
O mistress of the white flock, rising brightAmong the meadows as the dawn takes flight;
Thy world, thy world—how cool its pastures are,How fair its lord—indeed, it is poetry's star!
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