Why art thou silent O poet, in the assembly of
flowers?
Why is the face sad and taar-streaked in the
morning breeze?
Let the lyre lying awake at thy feet'
With tunes full to the brim in her bosom
Scatter forth joy at thy tender touch.
Let the air and the sky fill with the
fragrance of its music.

Thy beloved bade thee farewell in the night
in wounded pride
And in the gray morning her passion
cries out like a rose!

Forget her who will not return
And look at the one who waits at thy doors.
The sun has risen in glorious love
To make thee forget thy longing for the
setting moon.