Wonders never cease, my Lord, and far cries never wane;
the rain is straight upon the sun today;
I’ve not my jacket or a hat.

Would mountains bend sometime in fall again;
the leaves alone departed like the dead?
When I have lost my glasses.

There is a paradise that comes in storm, my Lord;
bolts and claps in playful stirring;
As I am bedside with a book.

And whether might or meek this book makes me;
I bend like supple peaks in season;
As bare and barren this world holds.