Burn yet awhile, my wasting lamp,
Though long the night may be;
The wind is rough, the air is damp,
Yet burn awhile for me.
The peepul tree beside our door,
How dark its branches wave;
They seem as they were drooping o’er
Its usual haunt, the grave.
Why was it planted here to bring
The images of death?
Surely some gladder tree should spring
Near human hope and breath.
O dove that dwellest its leaves among,
I hear thee on the bough;
I hear thy melancholy song,
Why art thou singing now?
All things are omens to the heart
That keeps a vigil lone,
When wearily the hours depart,
And yet night is not flown.
I see the lights amid the bay,
How pale and wan they shine;
O wind, that wanderest on thy way,
Say which of them is mine.
A weary lot the fisher hath
Of danger and of toil,
Over the wild waves is his path,
Amid their depths his spoil.
I cannot hear the wind go by
Without a sudden fear;
I cannot look upon the sky,
Nor fear that storms are near.
I look upon the sunny sea,
And think of rocks below;
Still present are the shoals to me
O’er which my love must go.
I cannot sleep as others sleep,
Night has more care than day;
My heart is out upon the deep,
I weep—I watch—I pray.
Ah, see a speck the waves among,
A light boat cuts the foam,
The wild wind beareth me his song,
Thank God, he is come home.