See, my belovèd, how the sun
With beams that o’er the water shake
From western skies has now begun
A bridge of gold across the lake.
Upon the very tree‑tops sway
The peacocks; even yet they hold
And drink the dying light of day,
Until their fans are molten gold.
The water‑lily closes, but
With wonderful reluctancy;
As if it troubled her to shut
Her door of welcome to the bee.
The steeds that draw the sun's bright car,
With bended neck and falling plume
And drooping mane, are seen afar
To bury day in ocean's gloom.
The sun is down, and heaven sleeps:
Thus every path of glory ends;
As high as are the scalèd steeps,
The downward way as low descends.
The twilight glow is fading far
And stains the west with blood‑red light,
As when a reeking scimitar
Slants upward on a field of fight.
And vision fails above, below,
Around, before us, at our back;
The womb of night envelops slow
The world with darkness vast and black.
Mute while the world is dazed with light,
The smiling moon begins to rise
And, being teased by eager night,
Betrays the secrets of the skies.
Moon‑fingers move the black, black hair
Of night into its proper place,
Who shuts her eyes, the lilies fair,
As he sets kisses on her face.