Page:Armenian poems, rendered into English verse (IA armenianpoemsren00blaciala).pdf/34

And when your sweet and thrilling voice
Is heard upon the air,
In cypress depths the nightingale
Is silent in despair.

Would I, a zephyr, might caress
Your bright brow's dreams in sleep,
Breathe gently on your lips, and dry
Your tears, if you should weep!

Or would that in your garden fair
A weeping rose I grew;
And when you came resplendent there
At morning with the dew,

I'd give fresh color to your cheek
That makes the rose look pale,
Shed on your breast my dew, and there
My latest breath exhale.

Oh, would I were a limpid brook!
If softly you drew nigh,
And smiled into my mirror clear,
My blue waves would run dry.

Oh, would I were a sunbeam bright,
To make you seem more fair,
Touching your face, and dying soon
Amid your fragrant hair!