Is there light of moon or sun
In the land where thou hast gone?
Does the rush of wind and rain
Smite thy woodlands green again?
Do dawn-birds rise up and sing,
Sunrise. Sunrise," heralding?
Dost thou fear, as once, the stark
Hours of panther-footed dark?
Oh, little maiden, sweetly frail,
Naught can these empty words avail.