At the early break of day,
When the river mists grow pink.
And the moon begins to sink,
Down along the southern way ;
When the gold mimosa tree
Rustles low and pleasantly.
To the little singing bird
That within her heart has stirred ;
I, the watcher at the window,
Thank the gods who made dawn lovely,
By creating you for me !

When the stately night steps down.
Silent footed, from the west,
With the moon against her breast
Folded in her cloudy gown ;
When the endless, sighing sea
Stretches to eternity.
Yearning for the pale-eyed star,
Long beloved, and yet so far ;
I, the watcher at the window,
Thank the gods who made night lovely,
By creating you for me !