Mocked her from bellies white, orange, and grey,

Cry now to willow and water and weed,

“Lenty Pond has a prophet indeed!”

For the rain-elf weeps no more to her pillow

Woven of twigs of the weeping-willow;

But her lover, come back to the laughing rain-elf,

Cries, “The Slowworm of Lenty is God Himself!”