The 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.

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