The Bechuana Boy
I sat at noontide in my tent,
And looked across the Desert dun,
Beneath the cloudless firmament
Far gleaming in the sun,
When from the bosom of the waste
A swarthy Stripling came in haste,
With foot unshod and naked limb;
And a tame springbok followed him.
With open aspect, frank yet bland,
And with a modest mien he stood,
Caressing with a gentle hand
That beast of gentle brood;
Then, meekly gazing in my face,
Said in the language of his race,
With smiling look yet pensive tone,
"Stranger -- I'm in the world alone!"
"Poor boy!" I said, "thy native home
Lies far beyond the Stormberg blue:
Why hast thou left it, boy! to roam
This desolate Karroo?"
His face grew sadder while I spoke;
The smile forsook it; and he broke
Short silence with a sob-like sigh,
And told his hapless history.
"I have no home!" replied the boy:
"The Bergenaars -- by night they came,
And raised their wolfish howl of joy,
While o'er our huts the flame
Resistless rushed; and aye their yell
Pealed louder as our warriors fell
In helpless heaps beneath their shot:
-- One living man they left us not!
"The slaughter o'er, they gave the slain
To feast the foul-beaked birds of prey;
And, with our herds, across the plain
They hurried us away --
The widowed mothers and their brood.
Oft, in despair, for drink and food
We vainly cried: they heeded not,
But with sharp lash the captive smote.
"Three days we tracked that dreary wild,
Where thirst and anguish pressed us sore;
And many a mother and her child
Lay down to rise no more.
Behind us, on the desert brown,
We saw the vultures swooping down:
And heard, as the grim night was falling,
The wolf to his gorged comrade calling.
"At length we heard a river sounding
'Midst that dry and dismal land,
And, like a troop of wild deer bounding,
We hurried to its strand --
Among the maddened cattle rushing;
The crowd behind still forward pushing,
Till in the flood our limbs were drenched,
And the fierce rage of thirst was quenched.
"Hoarse-roaring, dark, the broad Gareep
In turbid streams was sweeping fast,
Huge sea-cows in its eddies deep
Loud snorting as we passed;
But that relentless robber clan
Right through those waters wild and wan
Drove on like sheep our wearied band:
-- Some never reached the farther strand.
"All shivering from the foaming flood,
We stood upon the stranger's ground,
When, with proud looks and gestures rude,
The White Men gathered round:
And there, like cattle from the fold,
By Christians we were bought and sold,
'Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn --
And roughly from each other torn.
"My Mother's scream, so long and shrill,
My little Sister's wailing cry,
(In dreams I often hear them still!)
Rose wildly to the sky.
A tiger's heart came to me then,
And fiercely on those ruthless men
I sprang. -- Alas! dashed on the sand,
Bleeding, they bound me foot and hand.
"Away -- away on prancing steeds
The stout man-stealers blithely go,
Through long low valleys fringed with reeds,
O'er mountains capped with snow,
Each with his captive, far and fast;
Until yon rock-bound ridge we passed,
And distant stripes of cultured soil
Bespoke the land of tears and toil.
"And tears and toil have been my lot
Since I the White Man's thrall became,
And sorer griefs I wish forgot --
Harsh blows, and scorn, and shame!
Oh, Englishman! thou ne'er canst know
The injured bondman's bitter woe,
When round his breast, like scorpions, cling
Black thoughts that madden while they sting!
"Yet this hard fate I might have borne,
And taught in time my soul to bend,
Had my sad yearning heart forlorn
But found a single friend:
My race extinct or far removed,
The Boor's rough brood I could have loved;
But each to whom my bosom turned
Even like a hound the black boy spurned.
"While, friendless thus, my master's flocks
I tended on the upland waste,
It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks,
By wolfish wild-dogs chased:
I rescued it, though wounded sore
And dabbled in its mother's gore;
And nursed it in a cavern wild,
Until it loved me like a child.
"Gently I nursed it; for I thought
(Its hapless fate so like to mine)
By good Utíko it was brought
To bid me not repine, --
Since in this world of wrong and ill
One creature lived that loved me still,
Although its dark and dazzling eye
Beamed not with human sympathy.
"Thus lived I, a lone orphan lad,
My task the proud Boor's flocks to tend;
And this poor fawn was all I had
To love, or call my friend;
When suddenly, with haughty look
And taunting words, that tyrant took
My playmate for his pampered boy,
Who envied me my only joy.
"High swelled my heart! -- But when a star
Of midnight gleamed, I softly led
My bounding favourite forth, and far
Into the Desert fled.
And here, from human kind exiled,
Three moons on roots and berries wild
I've fared; and braved the beasts of prey,
To 'scape from spoilers worse than they.
"But yester morn a Bushman brought
The tidings that thy tents were near;
And now with hasty foot I've sought
Thy presence, void of fear;
Because they say, O English Chief,
Thou scornest not the Captive's grief:
Then let me serve thee, as thine own --
For I am in the world alone!"
Such was Marossi's touching tale.
Our breasts they were not made of stone:
His words, his winning looks prevail --
We took him for `our own.'
And One, with woman's gentle art,
Unlocked the fountains of his heart;
And love gushed forth -- till he became
Her Child in every thing but name.
poem by Thomas Pringle
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Related quotes
Liaison
A big bud of moon hangs out of the twilight,
Star-spiders spinning their thread
Hang high suspended, withouten respite
Watching us overhead.
Come then under the trees, where the leaf-cloths
Curtain us in so dark
That here we’re safe from even the ermin-moth’s
Flitting remark.
Here in this swarthy, secret tent,
Where black boughs flap the ground,
You shall draw the thorn from my discontent,
Surgeon me sound.
This rare, rich night! For in here
Under the yew-tree tent
The darkness is loveliest where I could sear
You like frankincense into scent.
Here not even the stars can spy us,
Not even the white moths write
With their little pale signs on the wall, to try us
And set us affright.
Kiss but then the dust from off my lips,
But draw the turgid pain
From my breast to your bosom, eclipse
My soul again.
Waste me not, I beg you, waste
Not the inner night:
Taste, oh taste and let me taste
The core of delight.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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The Voyageur
LIKE the swarthy son of some tropic shore
He sleeps, with his olive bosom bared,
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore.
Like a tawny tiger whom hot hours bore,
When all night long he has growled and glared
At the swarthy son of some tropic shore,
Like a fierce-eyed blossom with heart of gore
That too long in the sun-flushed fields has flared,
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore,
And his scarlet sash that he gaily wore
To tempt Madelon–who his heart has snared,
Like the swarthy son of some tropic shore.
That dusky form might a queen adore–
Prenez garde, Madelon, for a season spared,
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore.
For a season only. What may be in store
For Madelon? She who has never cared! . . .
Like the swarthy son of some tropic shore
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore.
poem by Susie Frances Harrison
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The Voyageur
LIKE the swarthy son of some tropic shore
He sleeps, with his olive bosom bared,
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore.
Like a tawny tiger whom hot hours bore,
When all night long he has growled and glared
At the swarthy son of some tropic shore,
Like a fierce-eyed blossom with heart of gore
That too long in the sun-flushed fields has flared,
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore,
And his scarlet sash that he gaily wore
To tempt Madelon–who his heart has snared,
Like the swarthy son of some tropic shore.
That dusky form might a queen adore–
Prenez garde, Madelon, for a season spared,
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore.
For a season only. What may be in store
For Madelon? She who has never cared! . . .
Like the swarthy son of some tropic shore
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore.
poem by Susan Frances Harrison
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On the Road to Jericho
On the road to Jericho
Mark the stricken one,
Moaning in his agony,
Prone beneath the sun.
Prone beneath the blazing sun,
Naked and alone,
Bleeding from a score of wounds,
Stricken to the bone.
Now his tossing arms lie still;
Now his moans grow faint.
Is there none to succor him
Publican or saint?
Publican or Pharisee
Are none passing by
On the road to Jericho
Is he left to die?
On the road to Jericho
Hurry, hurry, priest!
'Twere a sin wert thou away
From the saintly feast.
Haste thee, Levite, tarry not.
At the Temple waits
Holy work for thee to do;
Haste thee to the gates.
God will guard the stricken one.
Leave it all to Him.
(Now the blood dries on his wouds.
Now his eyes grow dim.)
Yet - ah tell it! Save the shame -
Save the name of Man!
On the road to Jericho
One Samaritan!
On the road to Jericho -
'Voices call 'Make way!
See, the Bishop's carriage comes;
He's in haste to-day.
He's in haste to tend a Prince.
Let the good man through,
He is lordly; he is rich . . .
Not like me or you.
He'll 'consider' your appeal.
He's no time to waste!'
O, despised Samaritan,
Haste thee hither, haste!
Priest and Levite pass along,
Bishops go their ways,
On the road to Jericho
As in olden days.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Sonnet to Isa Sleeping
As graceful as the Babylonian willow
Bending, at noontide, over some clear stream
In Palestine, in beauty did she seem
Upon the cygnet-down of her soft pillow;
And now her breast heaved like some gentle billow
Swayed by the presence of the full round moon
Voluptuous as the summer South at noon
Her cheeks as rosy as the radiant dawn
When heaven is cloudless! When she breated, the air
Around was perfume! Timid as the fawn,
And meeker than the dove, her soft words were
Like gentle music heard at night, when all
Around is still until the soul of care
Was soothed, as noontide by some waterfall.
poem by Thomas Holley Chivers from The Lost Pleiad (1854)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Late Aubade & Explanation
Once in a field, in a wide rising stretch of paintbrush
& purple vetch, we stuck down
a tent, like punctuation, and drank through the evening
our bottle of bad wine. When you looked up,
the weather was holding: a few breezes,
a full moon silvering the flowers
to white. In the distance, I heard the ache
& slide of snow, the beginning of crickets. It was twilight—
the landscape was lifting.
•
A mountain. The clouds, further up,
came down. A Book of Hours. A tent in which we twisted,
pressed each against the other, drunk
and when I stepped out into the cool
moonlight, there was drifting through the watery
end of the meadow, a deer
pale beneath pines, beneath those soaring
darknessess. Then there was only darkness, the
idea of a deer.
Remember, I never wanted
to be alive, to have
an outline. Better, I knew, to slip
unheld, an opening into mist.
poem by Kate Northrop
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Of Moses And His Wife
This Moses was a fair and comely man,
His wife a swarthy Ethiopian;
Nor did his milk-white bosom change her sin.
She came out thence as black as she went in.
Now Moses was a type of Moses' law,
His wife likewise of one that never saw
Another way unto eternal life;
There's mystery, then, in Moses and his wife.
The law is very holy, just, and good,
And to it is espoused all flesh and blood;
But this its goodness it cannot bestow
On any that are wedded thereunto.
Therefore as Moses' wife came swarthy in,
And went out from him without change of skin,
So he that doth the law for life adore,
Shall yet by it be left a black-a-more.
poem by John Bunyan
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Sonnet VI
For why the gains doth seldom quit the charge:
And so say I by proof too dearly bought,
My haste made waste; my brave and brainsick barge
Did float too fast to catch a thing of naught.
With leisure, measure, mean, and many moe
I mought have kept a chair of quiet state.
But hasty heads cannot be settled so,
Till crooked Fortune gave a crabbed mate.
As busy brains must beat on tickle toys,
As rash invention breeds a raw devise,
So sudden falls do hinder hasty joys;
And as swift baits do fleetest fish entice,
So haste makes waste, and therefore now I say,
No haste but good, where wisdom makes the way.
poem by George Gascoigne
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Beneath A Desert Moon
From the mountains of the moon to the mighty delta
From the deserts of the West to the shining sea
Beneath the canopy of stars flowed the serpent river
Flowing through my father's land that he left to me
From the baker to the priest to the candle maker
From the highest to the low in my father's land
We make our offer to the sun 'fore the break of morning
Or else everything we have will just turn to sand
I have a lot to ask
I have a lot that I need to say
I have so much to do
And all I need is another day
From the soldier to the scribe to the carpet maker
All the different colored threads in a carpet loom
A woven tapestry of life is our mighty nation
This is the writing on the wall of my father's tomb
We have a lot to ask
We have a lot that we need to say
We have so much to do
And all we need is another day
Beneath the desert moon I call you
Beneath the desert moon I sing
Beneath the desert moon so lonely
I'm just a boy who would be king
With just the moon to guide us
We sometimes lose our way
If there's a light inside us
We'll follow, follow it to the brightness of the day
Every single blade of grass every yellow flower
Every ripple on the sea or the blue blue Nile
Every leaf on every tree every single creature
From the smallest little bird to the crocodile
We have a lot to ask
We have a lot that we need to say
We have so much to do
And all we need is another day
Beneath the desert moon I call you
Beneath the desert moon we sing
Beneath the desert moon we're waiting
Before the coming of the king
Beneath the desert moon that's sinking
We see the Eastern skies on fire
This is where darkness leaves
And shining waters fall
And let the shadows run
And we'll say, "welcome to the sun"
Brand new day...
From the mountains of the moon to the mighty delta
From the deserts of the West to the shining sea
Beneath the canopy of stars flowed the serpent river
Flowing through my father's land that he left to me
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After A Dance At Malaga
In Malaga
at the base camp
you danced at some disco
and drank Bacardi
and coke and it was
well into the early hours
of the morning
when you left
with Mamie
tiptoeing between
tent ropes and the unlit
areas between
and she said
I can't find
where my tent is
and you said
I'd let you share mine
but that young army guy
is in mine
and three in a bed
is a bit cramped
but where is mine?
she said
searching around
touching tent ropes
as she went by
you stood watching
trying to decide
where your tent was
what are we to do?
she asked
let's go back
to the club
until it gets lighter
or we remember
where our tents are
you said
but I'm tired
she said
I want to go to bed
and sleep
you searched around
by the hedge of the field
and then said
wait
I know where
mine is now
and you led her
to the tent
and unzipped it
and there inside
was the army guy
fast asleep
you can come in here
if you like
you said
but she just stood there
in the semi dark
cussing into the night
come on in
and be quiet
you said
I want my tent
she said
I want my own bloody tent
ok go find it then
you said
and began to climb inside
wait
she said
in a hushed voice
and came over
to your tent
and looked in
what about him?
she asked
he's asleep
you replied
what will he say
and finds me here?
you gazed
at the sleeping soldier boy
his mouth open
his eyes closed
a soft snore
filling the air
either come in
or go elsewhere
you whispered
I can't
she said
not with him there
and so she turned
and wandered off
into the semi dark
another chance walking off
into the night
some things you hope for
you murmured
never come right.
poem by Terry Collett
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In The Tents Of Akbar
In the tents of Akbar
Are dole and grief to-day,
For the flower of all the Indies
Has gone the silent way.
In the tents of Akbar
Are emptiness and gloom,
And where the dancers gather,
The silence of the tomb.
Across the yellow desert,
Across the burning sands,
Old Akbar wanders madly,
And wrings his fevered hands.
And ever makes his moaning
To the unanswering sky,
For Sutna, lovely Sutna,
Who was so fair to die.
For Sutna danced at morning,
And Sutna danced at eve;
Her dusky eyes half hidden
Behind her silken sleeve.
Her pearly teeth out-glancing
Between her coral lips,
The tremulous rhythm of passion
Marked by her quivering hips.
As lovely as a jewel
Of fire and dewdrop blent,
So danced the maiden Sutna
In gallant Akbar's tent.
And one who saw her dancing,
Saw her bosom's fall and rise
Put all his body's yearning
Into his lovelit eyes.
Then Akbar came and drove him--
A jackal--from his door,
And bade him wander far and look
On Sutna's face no more.
Some day the sea disgorges,
The wilderness gives back,
Those half-dead who have wandered,
Aimless, across its track.
And he returned--the lover,
Haggard of brow and spent;
He found fair Sutna standing
Before her master's tent.
'Not mine, nor Akbar's, Sutna!'
He cried and closely pressed,
And drove his craven dagger
Straight to the maiden's breast.
Oh, weep, oh, weep, for Sutna,
So young, so dear, so fair,
Her face is gray and silent
Beneath her dusky hair.
And wail, oh, wail, for Akbar,
Who walks the desert sands,
Crying aloud for Sutna,
Wringing his fevered hands.
In the tents of Akbar
The tears of sorrow run,
But the corpse of Sutna's slayer,
Lies rotting in the sun.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Tea & Mitsubishi (Life Poem)
She sips tea with her son in a Tunisian tent
Orange and blue scarves sun-bright in summer
Mitsubishi motors mandatory for desert trek
Sardinia is two hours and a lifetime away.
Pensive thoughts on a desert dune heaven
Life can slip through the fingers like sand
Grasping the chance to live in the moment
Arabian nights' stories for next week's kids.
poem by Ian Beckett
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Old Man Say (Make Haste)
The beast rest there!
Go before the night draw near
Before ill-times wake
Cause then, It may all be late
So lad make haste
- *Guh dear lad!
Before next day
Harken to what *dis old man say
Make hay my lad
Unless be sad
Say I, make haste
Don't make good times waste
It's a wild wild world
- out *deh mi lad
And di wolves dem *nat suh kine
Go on now *mi lad
*Mek haste before its night
And me sure all will be right
*guh - go *mek - make *mi - my
*deh - there * kine - kind *di - the
*nat suh - not so *me - i'm *dis - this
Copyright © 2012
poem by Godfrey Morris
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Hagar
Untrodden, drear, and lone,
Stretched many a league away,
Beneath a burning, noonday sun,
The Syrian desert lay.
The scorching rays that beat
Upon that herbless plain,
The dazzling sands, with fiercer heat,
Reflected back again.
O'er that dry ocean strayed
No wandering breath of air,
No palm trees cast their cooling shade,
No water murmured there.
And thither, bowed with shame,
Spurned from her master's side,
The dark-browed child of Egypt came,
Her woe and shame to hide.
Drooping, and travel-worn,
The boy upon her hung;
Who, from his father's tent, that morn,
Like a gazelle had sprung.
His ebbing breath failed fast,
Glazed was his flashing eye;
And in that fearful, desert waste,
She laid him down to die.
But when, in wild despair,
She left him to his lot,
A voice that filled that breathless air,
Said, "Hagar, fear thou not."
Then o'er the hot sands flowed
A cooling, crystal stream,
And angels left their high abode,
And ministered to them.
Oft, when drear wastes surround
My faltering footsteps here,
I've thought, I too heard that blest sound
Of "Wanderer, do not fear."
And then, to light my path
On through the evil land,
Have the twin angels, Hope and Faith,
Walked with me, hand to hand.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Make Haste
Make haste, make haste, no time to waste,
the sandman’s on the move!
The minutes chased, missspent, misplaced,
swift scattered are, remove
from life the paste thats interlaced
with love to leave the groove
by others faced with fears encased
within themselves! Improve
your chances paced by those who’ve raced
where most may fear, disprove
the double-faced, minds [s]oft, effaced.
let no one disapprove
Strong spirits graced with soul true, chaste,
which ever must reprove
all evil based on base, poor taste, -
which ever seeks to prove
Good may be traced, Right be embraced
in confidence – for you’ve
the need to haste to truth, yes haste,
for Time is on the move!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Identification
Camel knows about the desert
but nothing about the tent.
Shark knows about the ocean
but scares of dolphins.
Bird knows about the sky
but never been to sun &moon.
Snake knows about the earth
but villain is the mongoose.
And the big-headed man too
knows about everything,
secret whisper in the desert
depth of the ocean
length & breadth of the vast sky
mysterious earth.
The intellectual boasts
from the top floors of the universities
but he knows very few
about the attractive, fragile and sensitive
Womankind!
and never understand her mind?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Sheik Of Sinai In 1830
I.
'Lift me without the tent, I say,-
Me and my ottoman,-
I'll see the messenger myself!
It is the caravan
From Africa, thou sayest,
And they bring us news of war?
Draw me without the tent, and quick!
As at the desert well
The freshness of the purling brook
Delights the tired gazelle,
So pant I for the voice of him
That cometh from afar!'
II.
The Scheik was lifted from his tent,
And thus outspake the Moor:-
'I saw, old Chief, the Tricolor
On Algiers' topmost tower-
Upon its battlements the silks
Of Lyons flutter free.
Each morning, in the market-place,
The muster-drum is beat,
And to the war-hymn of Marseilles
The squadrons pace the street.
The armament from Toulon sailed:
The Franks have crossed the sea.'
III.
'Towards the south, the columns marched
Beneath a cloudless sky:
Their weapons glittered in the blaze
Of the sun of Barbary;
And with the dusty desert sand
Their horses' manes were white.
The wild marauding tribes dispersed
In terror of their lives;
They fled unto the mountains
With their children and their wives,
And urged the clumsy dromedary
Up the Atlas' height.'
IV.
'The Moors have ta'en their vantage-ground,
The volleys thunder fast-
The dark defile is blazing
Like a heated oven-blast;
The lion hears the strange turmoil,
And leaves his mangled prey-
No place was that for him to feed;
And thick and loud the cries,
Feu!-Allah! Allah!-En avant!
In mingled discord rise;
The Franks have reached the summit-
They have won the victory!'
V.
'With bristling steel, upon the top
The victors take their stand:
Beneath their feet, with all its towns,
They see the promised land-
From Tunis, even unto Fez,
From Atlas to the seas.
The cavaliers alight to gaze,
And gaze full well they may,
Where countless minarets stand up
So solemnly and gray,
Amidst the dark-green masses
Of the flowering myrtle-trees.'
VI.
'The almond blossoms in the vale;
The aloe from the rock
Throws out its long and prickly leaves,
Nor dreads the tempest's shock:
A blessed land, I ween, is that,
Though luckless is its Bey.
There lies the sea-beyond lies France!
Her banners in the air
Float proudly and triumphantly-
A salvo! come, prepare!
And loud and long the mountains rang
With that glad artillery.'
VII.
''Tis they!' exclaimed the aged Scheik.
'I've battled by their side-
I fought beneath the Pyramids!
That day of deathless pride-
Red as thy turban, Moor, that eve,
Was every creek in Nile!
But tell me-' and he griped his hand-
'Their Sultaun. Stranger, say-
His form-his face-his posture, man?
Thou saw'st him in the fray?
His eye-what wore he?' But the Moor
Sought in his vest awhile.
VIII.
'Their Sultaun, Scheik, remains at home
Within his palace walls:
He sends a Pasha in his stead
To brave the bolts and balls.
He was not there. An Aga burst
For him through Atlas' hold.
Yet I can show thee somewhat too.
A Frankish Cavalier
Told me his effigy was stamped
Upon this medal here-
He gave me with others
For an Arab steed I sold.'
IX.
The old man took the golden coin:
Gazed steadfastly awhile,
If that could be the Sultaun
Whom from the banks of Nile
He guided o'er the desert path-
Then sighed and thus spake he-
''Tis not
his
eye-'tis not
his
brow-
Another face is there:
I never saw this man before-
His head is like a pear!
Take back thy medal, Moor-'tis not
That which I hoped to see.'
poem by William Edmondstoune Aytoun
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Beneath the Stairs
After you left us
You came back
You found me crying
Beneath the stairs
Of your house, what used to be before?
But I have to wonder
Whether you really looked behind what was
Beneath the stairs
Because when you found me crying
I was crying just for you
For your life, your old life
That you used to love
And now I worry once more
About what you saw when you looked
Beneath the stairs
If you felt what my heart thought had happened
When you were here, you understood everything
You were always by my side
But then you said those fatal words-
“I can’t stay here anymore”
He used to have a tent show, a little tent show, and I thought I was going to get a job working one year on the tent show, but he closed it down and I never got to go out there, but anyway, he had a sax and played drums.
quote by Earl Scruggs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Genesis BK III
(ll. 135-143) The day departed, hasting over the dwellings of
earth. And after the gleaming light the Lord, our maker, thrust
on the first of evenings. Murky gloom pressed hard upon the
heels of day; God called it night. Our Lord sundered them, one
from the other; and ever since they follow out the will of God to
do it on the earth.
(ll. 143-153) Then came a second day, light after darkness. And
the Lord of life ordained a pleasant firmament amid the waters.
Our Lord sundered the seas and established the heavens. By His
word the King, Almighty God, raised them above the earth. The
waters were divided under the heavens by His holy might; the
waters were sundered from the waters, under the firmament.
(ll. 154-168) Then came hasting over the earth the third fair
morning. Not yet were the wide ways and spacious tracts useful
unto God, but the land lay covered by the deep. The Lord of
angels, by His word, commanded that the waters come together,
which now beneath the heavens hold their course and place
ordained. Then suddenly, wide-stretching under heaven, lay the
sea, as God gave bidding. The great deep was sundered from the
land. The Warden of life, the Lord of hosts, beheld the dry
ground far outspread. And the King of glory called it earth.
For the ocean-billows and the wide-flung sea He set a lawful path
and lettered them....
((LACUNA -- two to three leaves missing))