Reiselust
By Annie Macdonell
Nay, Love, but stay thy blame;
For if men have their claim,
The day's but theirs—
Poor gift, the day of heat and cares!
Thou hast the night, the calm cool night,
When the soul's garden blooms in sight,
With roses tinted by the moon's soft smile,
On that far fringed horizon isle.
The night, the long sweet night is thine,
Then I awake, and find thee, soul of mine.
For if men have their claim,
The day's but theirs—
Poor gift, the day of heat and cares!
Thou hast the night, the calm cool night,
When the soul's garden blooms in sight,
With roses tinted by the moon's soft smile,
On that far fringed horizon isle.
The night, the long sweet night is thine,
Then I awake, and find thee, soul of mine.
Ah, rushing hours beneath the sun!
Ah, fevered crying haste, have done!
Yet let your coursing swifter run!
Now let the still night fall.
I hear the water lapping 'gainst the wall,
I open wide my door unto the sea
Whence Death, thy keeper, brings thee back to me.
So mild he waits without, yet laughs at Life,
That cannot give her hirelings such a wife.
Ah, fevered crying haste, have done!
Yet let your coursing swifter run!
Now let the still night fall.
I hear the water lapping 'gainst the wall,
I open wide my door unto the sea
Whence Death, thy keeper, brings thee back to me.
So mild he waits without, yet laughs at Life,
That cannot give her hirelings such a wife.
Day
