To Mosellay’s enchanted glades,
Breathe on my lips, and o’er my brain
Some comfort for thy child, whose pain
Strives as you strove, but strives in vain.
When sundown sets the world on fire,
The music of the Master’s lyre
Deadens the ache of keen desire.
Reading this painted Persian page,
Where, half a lover, half a sage,
You built your heart a golden cage,