Over thy balcony leaning,
Thy languorous glance floats below
Whence arise thousand odours a-streaming,
Thine incense, O goddess of woe!
A star from the infinite whirling,
Taking flight through the dimness of night,
In an ark through the ether is curling;
And touches thy hair with its light.
O lady of sadness and sorrow,
Mine anguish, my hope, my despair,
Will the bright-dawning day of to-morrow
Find thee still in that balcony there?
Near thy casement, an ancient vine groweth,
A ladder that leads thee below;
Were it not for that vine, ah, who knoweth
Thou wert not an angel of woe?
Come down from thy cloud-bosomed chamber;
Not yet has the moon lit the sky;
On the vine-trellis, carefully, clamber—
(Is it thou or the wind that doth sigh?)
Among the copse hedges then darting
Like a ghost at the dawn of the day;
Then, far in the distance departing,
In triumph, I'll bear thee away.
October 7, 1911. |
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