At length the consecrating hour is here
That sains the slave's extenuated sleep.
And I who wait shall see its hands appear,
Full of white roses in these caverns deep.

I wait – at length to feel its cooling wind
Strike on my heart, impregnable to lies,
A paschal lamb lost amid marshes blind,
A wound o'er which the surging waters rise.

I wait – for nights no morrow shall defy,
I wait – for weakness nothing shall avail;
To feel upon my hands its shadow lie,
To see in peaceful tides its image pale.

I wait until those nights of thine shall show
All my desires with cleansed eyes go by;
For then my dreams shall bathe in evening's glow,
And then within their crystal castle die.