At length the consecrating hour is here
That sains the slave's extenuated sleep.
And I who wait shall see its hands appear,
Full of white roses in these caverns deep.
I wait--at length to feel its cooling wind
Strike on my heart, impregnable to lies,
A paschal lamb lost amid marshes blind,
A wound o'er which the surging waters rise.
I wait--for nights no morrow shall defy,
I wait--for weakness nothing shall avail;
To feel upon my hands its shadow lie,
To see in peaceful tides its image pale.
I wait until those nights of thine shall show
All my desires with cleansed eyes go by,
For then my dreams shall bathe in evening's glow,
And then within their crystal castle die.