Is there light of moon or sun

In the land where thou hast gone?

Does the rush of wind and rain

Smite thy woodlands green again?

Do dawn-birds rise up and sing,

Sunrise. Sunrise," heralding?

Dost thou fear, as once, the stark

Hours of panther-footed dark?

Oh, little maiden, sweetly frail,

Naught can these empty words avail.

For thee I clasp God's mantle fast,

Praying till night is overpast.