It enters the pearl blinds, it wets the silk curtains; A fur coat feels cold, a cotton mat flimsy; Bows become rigid, can hardly be drawn And the metal of armour congeals on the men; The sand-sea deepens with fathomless ice, And darkness masses its endless clouds; But we drink to our guest bound home from camp, And play him barbarian lutes, guitars, harps; Till at dusk, when the drifts are crushing our tents And our frozen red flags cannot flutter in the wind,
Once, but long years had intervened since then, guitars and Eolian harps had been hung on his boughs by merry travellers; now they seemed to hang there again, and he could hear their marvellous tones.
When the Children of Israel sat weeping by the waters of Babylon, he glanced mournfully upon the willows where hung the silent harps.
The fragrance around him overpowered his senses, the music from the harps sounded more entrancing, while around the tree appeared millions of smiling faces, nodding and singing.
