So I know well that by the Virgin's grace,
I too by it shall come unto the place
Where my sweet babe and its nurse-angels are.

Wearisome are the days, they mock me so,
Pouring down light that seems to bid me see,
Yet hides the starry pilot by its glow,
Whose light I thirst for, whilst light-fountains, flow
Around me like the swelling of the sea.

Wearisome are they, till the sun-god pales
Beneath the surges of the western wave,
And the last fold of his golden mantle trails
O'er the horizon where Earth's vision fails,
And space becomes a darkness and a grave.

I ofttimes think to curse the Day, that tries
To keep my babe hid in its envious breast,
Smit with its hair of gold, and large blue eyes,
Close hid within its mantle, careless of my sighs,
That night and day must wake it from its rest.

But Patience! when the sun is in the deep,
The Star will beam upon me suddenly,
And ere the sun-god waketh from his sleep,
The dear one shall be mine for whom I weep,
Mine, mine alone for all eternity.

They call me crazed--Ha! ha!--They little know
Who are the crazed of Earth, or they, or I--