O Lady of the Wilderness, Lady of the Waste, thou yonder who seemest lost, just ahead— How is it thou askest not for the hamlet? Doth no fear find thee, not at all?

When the ciccika lendeth voice with the roaring one—be it bird or beast— then doth the Lady of the Waste show forth her greatness, as a king racing through the rattle of cymbals.

It is as though kine do graze, as though a township draweth nigh; and the Lady of the Wilderness at dusk— it is as though a cart doth groan beneath its burden.

Surely 'tis one calling unto his cow;
surely 'tis another who cleaveth wood.
But who abideth with the Lady of the Waste at even shall think, "Some dread thing hath cried out!"

Yet the Lady of the Wilderness doeth no slaying, save if another striketh first.
Having feasted on fruit full sweet, one may lie down at ease.

Anointed with fragrance, redolent and rich in store though she tills not, she, the Mother of wild things, the Lady of the Wilderness, have I now named aloud.