There are dry worms, all lying dead
    By dry a solemn brook
And there I hooked onto a thread
    A worm stabbed with a hook

I threw it in the stream’s dry jaw
    And caught a silver fish
And severed it and ate it raw
    And made a sullen wish

And then I placed the small trout, dead
    Into the earth below
And suddenly I heard ahead
    A warm yet chill wind blow

And called my name a maiden fair
    To come beckoning me
And disappeared mid the bright air
    And left pure destiny:

A golden ship with silver beam
    I set my sailing out
Thanks to the barren, dried-out stream
    Thanks to this silver trout

Thanks to the maiden who appeared
    When I ate the fish, bright
And to my fate, my wish adhered
    I rose to once--impossible height