INVOCATION 153 



singing by the waterside, a little maid in 

 a print dress. With shy eyes she tendered 

 the poem. I remember the last verse: 



God of Pity, I beseech Thee, 



Send us rain In heating shower, 

 For the fields I tee around me 



Death and Ruin hold in power. 



But from the west comes no cloud; only 

 the fiery sun burns in a pitiless sky. 



