The night is dark and your slumber is deep in the hush of my
being.

Wake, O Pain of Love, for I know not how to open the door, and I
stand outside.

The hours wait, the stars watch, the wind is still, the silence
is heavy in my heart.

Wake, Love, wake! brim my empty cup, and with a breath of song
ruffle the night.



XXV

The bird of the morning sings.

Whence has he word of the morning before the morning breaks, and
when the dragon night still holds the sky in its cold black
coils?

Tell me, bird of the morning, how, through the twofold night of
the sky and the leaves, he found his way into your dream, the
messenger out of the east?

The world did not believe you when you cried, "The sun is on his
way, the night is no more."