The Boatman is out, I know not for what tryst, startling the
night with the sudden white of his sails.

I know not at what shore, at last, he lands to reach the silent
courtyard where the lamp is burning and to find her who sits in
the dust and waits.

What is the quest that makes his boat care not for storm nor
darkness?

Is it heavy with gems and pearls?

Ah, no, the Boatman brings with him no treasure, but only a white
rose in his hand and a song on his lips.

It is for her who watches alone at night with her lamp burning.

She dwells in the wayside hut. Her loose hair flies in the wind
and hides her eyes.

The storm shrieks through her broken doors, the light flickers in
her earthen lamp flinging shadows on the walls.

Through the howl of the winds she hears him call her name, she
whose name is unknown.

It is long since the Boatman sailed. It will be long before the
day breaks and he knocks at the door.