Upon these withered grasses is no rest.
Thy crimson-dotted mosses are denied.
In dewy vines I see thy portal dressed,
But know that only on the further side
The purple grapes droop over. Take me in !
I do not fear to trust myself to thee.
Waking and danger are of closer kin,
But what hast thou to do with grief or sin ?
Imprisoned from myself, I wander free,
And no resplendent sun of noon grants such security.

I would not lie to-night so near the bars,
If to thy realm fair entrance I may find,
That through them I might view our mortal stars
Or hear the passing of our pilgrim wind.
Not even would I wish some gentle friend
To lean against them with a loving face,
For rest and life were never willed to blend,
And as I watched the day unto its end,
So would I sleep the night without a trace
Not only of day's grievousness, but even of its grace.
Nor spread my couch within thy garden-beds,
Where fairy forms from out the blossoms glance,
And catch the yellow moonlight on their heads
To shift it swiftly in the swaying dance.