The Dove Afar

The dove, afar,' she flieth about the forests;
She stumbleth, she cannot shake herself free.
Flying, flitting, fluttering,
Round about her beloved she swirleth, she stormeth.
She deemed a thousand years would be the limit of her set time,
But she is ashamed of all whereon she counted.’
Her Beloved who hath afflicted her with long years of separation
Hath poured out her soul to the grave.
"Lo,” she saith, “I will not make mention any more of His name;”
But it is within her heart like a burning fire.
Why wilt Thou be as an enemy to her, since she
Openeth wide her mouth for the rain of thy salvation?
And she maketh her soul believe and despaireth not,
Whether she win honour in His name or whether she be brought low.
Our God shall come and shall not keep silence;
All round about Him is fire; it stormeth exceedingly.