With A Copy Of The Rabbi Of Bachwach

Burst out in wailing riot,

Thou darkling martyr-lay,

That in my soul, flame-quiet,

I've borne this many a day!

It thrills through every

And so the heart doth gain.

I've conjured up, unfearing,

The thousand-year-old pain.

Great, little, weep and

Cold hearts do tearful grow :

The small stars weep in heaven,

The maids and flowers below.

The tears, still southward fleeting,

To the still conclave

And all, each other meeting,

Into the Jordan flow.