A thing of fearful joy athwart my skies,
A hope, a joy e'en yet that this might be,
That I should die for him who lovéd me.

I waste no life, no blame shall me dismay,
For these brief days of mine are but a morn,
A handful of poor violets, wind-worn,
Or nurseling lily-buds which to mislay
Were not the ill that to the perfect flower
Might be if cruel hand should disarray
Its starry splendour when in ripened hour
It floats in tranquil state on Gunga's stream.

Make ready, little maid; sweet is the gleam
That lightens this ill night, soft clouds will weep,
The fervid bulbul still his song, beneath
Our tallices the blinking jasmines sleep,
The kindly myrtles shadow all our parth.

Speak, gentle maid, tell me it shall be so,
That I shall find my love; speak and we go
On pilgrimage more sweet than home-bent wing
Of banished doves--now, I will chant of woe,
And though my song be doleful, blithe I sing."

O Night!
O Night so true!
The promise of the Day is full of guile.
Fair is the Day, but crafty is her smile;
The friendly Night, it knows no subtle wile.