And thy scent of Paradise on the night-wind spends its sighs,
Nor any take the secrets of its meaning.
O Lily of the King, I speak a heavy thing,
O patience, most sorrowful of daughters!
Lo, the hour is at hand for the troubling of the land,
And red shall be the breaking of the waters.
Sit fast upon thy stalk, when the blast shall with thee talk,
With the mercies of the King for thine awning,
And the Just understand that thine hour is at hand,
Thine hour at hand with power in the dawning.