In nights impure moans one with fever stricken:
"Lord! let a maiden bring me, for I sicken,
Water and grapes, and quench my thirst with them.
Spring water! Fruits of a virgin vine! And let
Her fresh and virgin hands lie on the fret
Of my King's brow burnt by its diadem."
O pitiful crown upon a head so lowly!
Does the unquiet night allegiance show thee?
Thou King of beautiful lands that never were.
"O stars among the trees! O waters pale!
Comes the expected dawn in opal veil?
Pity the tired and lonely sufferer:
And grant me, Lord, after the night out-drawn,
The sleep and boon of Thy forgiving dawn;
And let Thy chosen heart no longer bleed!"
But answer makes the Lord in stern denial:
"Leave thou, for nobler verse, to pain and trial
Thy heart, the open book the angels read."