The hunchèd camels of the
Trouble the bright And silver waters of the moon.
The Maiden of the Morn will soon Through Heaven stray and sing,
Star gathering.
Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,
Light of my dark, blood of my heart,
O come!
And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.
Leave thy father, leave thy mother And thy brother;
Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!
Am I not thy father and thy brother,
And thy mother?
And thou—what needest with thy tribe's black tents Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?
