The Song Of The Watcher

AT the early break of day, When the river mists grow pink, And the moon begins to sink, Down along the southern way; When the gold mimosa tree Rustles low and pleasantly, To the little singing bird That within her heart has stirred; I, the watcher at the window, Thank the gods who made dawn lovely, By creating you for me!

When the stately night steps down, Silent footed, from the west, With the moon against her breast Folded in her cloudy gown; When the endless, sighing sea Stretches to eternity, Yearning for the pale-eyed star, Long beloved, and yet so far; I, the watcher at the window, Thank the gods who made night lovely, By creating you for me!