For, every tree, by its own fruit, becometh known. For not, of thorns, do they gather figs, neither, of a bramble-bush, do they gather, a bunch of grapes.
These are they—who, in your love-feasts, are hidden rocks, as they fare sumptuously together, fearlessly, themselves, shepherding,—clouds without water, by winds swept along, trees autumnal, fruitless, twice dead, uprooted,