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Updated: June 15, 2025
O my Chief, my lion! hadst thou no dream of Bhanavar, that she would come hither to unbind thee and lift thee beside her, and live with thee in love and veilless loveliness, thine?
Day's lustrous eyes grow heavy in sweet death, And pale and paler wane his jocund hues, The flowers too gentle for his glowing breath, Ope their frank beauty to the twilight dews. The bright face of the moon is still and lone, Melts in vast masses the world silently; Slides from each charm the slowly-loosening zone; And round all beauty, veilless, roves the eye. What yonder seems to glimmer?
O my Chief, my lion! hadst thou no dream of Bhanavar, that she would come hither to unbind thee and lift thee beside her, and live with thee in love and veilless loveliness, thine?
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