HE serpents are asleep among the poppies,
The fireflies light the soundless panther's way To tangled paths where shy gazelles are straying,
And parrot-plumes outshine the dying day.
O soft! the lotus-buds upon the stream Are stirring like sweet maidens when they dream.
A caste-mark on the azure brows of Heaven,
The golden moon burns sacred, solemn, bright The winds are dancing in the forest-temple,
And swooning at the holy feet of Night.
Hush! in the silence mystic voices sing And make the gods their incense-offering.
