Our feet of lead. . .
The desert we tread. . .
What lies ahead?
Where is our tear?
Have we no fear?
Where is our tear?
So often near.
We drift a long day
Toward desert's display—
We drift on the day—
Our hopes not frayed.
Oh mistaken night,
We must take fright!
Oh mistaken night,
Illusion so bright!
The desert we tread,
All hope hence fled;
The desert we tread,
Until we got dead.
