They are shaken, pitter-patter
On a marble platter.
O thou green-hued sprig of rose, within thy barb a store of pain is,
And my bosom is so frail, and in this woe a store of bane is!
From my heart the blood-drops patter:
Tap, tap, tap. . .
In that thorn from off the rose-tree poisoned is the sap.
Can the moon reveal no splendour,
Or the night-bloom scent engender.
With this cry allayed?
Canst not, earth, to sleep surrender,
With my weeping stayed?
Dost thou crave another's anguish, that thou lull to rest thy woe?
Stars are hotly dropping tears upon the meads and dales below. . .
O sorrow is thus more tender!
Woe, woe woe.
Night with potent spell enchants my
Woodland calm.
Where, O where art thou, enchantress? Thee thy friend calls with a psalm!
Hearken: chiming, chiming, chiming,—
Jasmin-calyx, scarce unfolded,
Lily-calyx, bigly moulded;
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