All day and all day, as I sit at my measureless turning,
    They come and they go,—
The little ones down on the rocks,—and the sunlight is burning
    On vineyards below;
All day and all day, as I sit at my stone and am ceaselessly grinding,
    The almond boughs blow.

When she was here—O my first-born!—here, grinding and singing,
    ...