Sons of Israel
Twelve palm-girt fountains did in Elim spring,
Yet Israel's march must reel
Away through a parched Rephidim or e'er it bring
Onward the fate-flung line of its distant weal.
Even so Man's Fate doth swerve him — Beauty she,
And a deity passing stern;
Deep wells of delight, and cool, sweet palms, there be
For us who are hers — and deserts that writhe and burn!
Yet Israel's march must reel
Away through a parched Rephidim or e'er it bring
Onward the fate-flung line of its distant weal.
Even so Man's Fate doth swerve him — Beauty she,
And a deity passing stern;
Deep wells of delight, and cool, sweet palms, there be
For us who are hers — and deserts that writhe and burn!
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