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The king has come-but where are lights, where are wreaths? Where

is the throne to seat him? Oh, shame! Oh utter shame! Where is

the hall, the decorations? Someone has said, "Vain is this cry!

Greet him with empty hands, lead him into thy rooms all bare!"

Open the doors, let the conch-shells be sounded! in the depth of

the night has come the king of our dark, dreary house. The

thunder roars in the sky. The darkness shudders with lightning.

Bring out thy tattered piece of mat and spread it in the

courtyard. With the storm has come of a sudden our king of the

fearful night.

52.

I thought I should ask of thee-but I dared not-the rose wreath

thou hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou

didst depart, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a

beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two.