In the morning let us rise
(Has the pomegranate put forth fruit?
Is the vineyard in blossom?)
I dreamed desolation
But now your dawn orchard appears
Look—the maple with its ready sap
Greets us, timid, wet, shivering.
Let us awake, if only for this moment:
The vine is studded with morning stars—
The seeds of the pomegranate are fresh and sour,
Bitter and desirable.