Trepidation

There are moonbeams weeping on the desert sand,	
And the dew is softly dripping
Where the opal waves are lapping 'gainst the land
And the wind is lithely tripping ...
Shall we dance -- In the shadows, or in the latticed light,
Criss-crossing as the careless moon caresses cloud
In the blackened bowl, with the stars' eternity --
To the mellifluous voices of the Night,
Which, with the passage of the Time, become more loud,
Until lo! we swoon with the sound: end our ditty?

There are we Yogi ... all the Secrets know ...
We are inspired ... our souls unloosed away have fled
To the lost Spirits of the Air, crying 'panic!' 
For oh, who shall bear the lantern, to show
Us unto the aisle of the long quiescent dead,
Or the railed throne of the Kingdom Satanic?

Sweet zephyrs of the dawn, O bring us balm!
Let the end be what it will.
Now are we automatons in a charm,
Sportive in the chase and kill ...

Let us die
And let our graves be by the littoral,
That we might be soothed by the sea's soft, silky chant.
So, in the evening's close, perhaps we shall
Ethereally return, and lying on the slant
Of a wadi, in trepidation await
For the zero-hour's mishandling of our fate,
With the moonbeams weeping on the desert sand,
And the dew so softly dripping
Where the opal waves are lapping 'gainst the land
And the wind is lithely tripping.