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.