The serpents are asleep among the poppies, The fireflies light the soundless panther's way To tangled¹ 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 maidens² when they dream.

    A caste-mark on the azure³ 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. Hush⁴！ in the silence mystic voices sing And make the gods their incense-offering.