My soil lies thirsty and hot, with parched and languishing lips — blue spring did not shake out over her the blessed rain-holding sieves .
The clear summer failed to resound over her with lightning nd thundering bugle .
— Ah, in vain, in vain do fields yearn for a sated song of ripe rye .
Not a sated but a hungry melody to creviced ears of fences ... And the arms of the windmills stiffen — arms wrung in anguish...