They set out yesterday again, the tribe of seers
With burning eyes--bearing their little ones in nests
Slung from their backs, or giving them, to stop their tears,
The treasure of ungrudging, ever handy breasts.

The men walk, shoulders hung with gleaming musketry,
Beside the carts in which their huddled families ride
Their eyes sweeping the sky, as if they hoped to see
Visions that once enticed them but would not abide.

No matter where they journey through the meagre land,
The cricket will sing louder from his lair of sand,
And Cybele, who loves them, will smile where they advance,

Making the dry rock trickle and the desert bloom
Before the footsteps of these wayfarers, for whom
Spreads out familiarly the clouded realm of chance.