I

The wind is hushed, the moon is bright, More stars on heaven than may be told; Young flowers are coying with the light, That softly tempts them to unfold, And trust the night.

What form comes bounding from above Down Arafa, the mountain lonely, Afraid to scare its long-lost dove, Yet swift as joy--"It can be only, Only my love!"

What shape is that--too fair to leave On Arafa, the mountain lone? So trembling, and so faint--"My own, It must be my own Eve!"