Rest to night, tired one.
Not half of your merchandise is done?
The steamers, the banks, the corn exchange?
No, Azael deals not in notes or change;
He keeps no gold,
In his fingers cold,
He takes no bribe.

Come along with me, sweet lady so fair,
Who told thee I was so grim and so cold;
Know you that I covet that sunny hair,
And those delicate arms's caressing fold;
Fear me not, gentle one.
What if the hymn and the task are done,
In my arms there is far calmer rest,
Then thou wilt find on thy lover's breast.
Sleep, sleep for awhile,
Then waken to smile,
Ever and aye.

True life is progressive, my lady fair,
And thou wilt re-open those radiant eyes;
Think you that I have no burden of care,
Azael has to account for each prize.
Banish doubt, gentle one.
Quicksands and pitfalls for thee are all done;
Human love may ere long deceive thee,
But Azael's love will never leave thee
Till those earth-dim eyes
Look on Paradise,