The sailor’s hand is guided by the star;
Fair islands rise in morning’s early gleam;
A breeze stirs, and there flow, as in a dream,
Sweet fragrances of terebinth and cinnabar.

The waves caress the strand in tides of green,
While inland light reveals the path towards
The solitude of primal upland swards
Where gorgeous nenuphars may bloom unseen

Dark shadows lie on towering mountain walls,
And dying sunlight filters through the land,
To stream on towers reared by unknown hands
Where lovers make their vow as evening falls.

The fading sun may set the stars in flight;
The stars, a woven tapestry of love perfect;
The moon an antique city resurrect,
Or turn a desert to a garden of delight.

Brief days of hope dull separation’s pain,
And glamour to the distant dream impart.
But years alone erode the constant heart
That blindly seeks its destiny in vain.

Despair can make a desert of the mind;
An outland sun torment and sear and blind;
The moon disclose a wasteland of the night
And stars a secret tragedy unbind.

The tide-surge shatters on the barren shore;
Vast clouds obliterate the dying sun;
Colossal chains of livid lightning run
And mournful winds monotonously roar

Through bleak, deserted glades; my feet now tread
Where stricken trees arch darkly overhead
And claw the sky with fingers black and dead;
The endless road lies empty as before...