Gold-dusty, saffron-robed maid, What love brings thee In the wake of the morning star? Night's veil of silence Thou tearest to fling away. Laughing with such mirth — The breeze thy playmate — What playful mood, this? I ask. What wonders dost thou see From thine azure throne on high, That I can not see from My torn bed of straw? I hear the roll of thy chariot wheels On the red-paved pathway of the sky. A man, I have not thy wing; Old, worn, how can I fly from land to sea? Beckon me not to follow thee; Let me dream, let me lie, Watch thy triumphal march, And listen to thy soul-lifting hymn, Sung by thy playmates that, lo! are winging the breeze. |