When the scorching sun's high at noon,

I run from here to there,

From east to west, north to south,

Through the fields, over the ditches,

Up the slope, over the summit,

Down the hill, to the valley,

Into the woods, through the glade,

Not in search of ores, nor of gems,

Neither of buried treasures,

Which everyone seeks,

But of the element--H₂O;

Not to quench my thirst,

Nor to wash my hands or face,

But to water a withering rose,

Lonely and deserted in a nook.