My harp is on the willow-tree,
Else would I sing, O love, to thee
A song of long-ago--
Perchance the song that Miriam sung
Ere yet Judea's heart was wrung
By centuries of woe.
I ate my crust in tears to-day,
As scourged I went upon my way--
And yet my darling smiled;
Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed--
My anguish curdled not the draught--
'T was sweet with love, my child!
The shadow of the centuries lies
Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes--
But, hush! and close them now;
And in the dreams that thou shalt dream
The light of other days shall seem
To glorify thy brow!
Our harp is on the willow-tree--
I have no song to sing to thee,
As shadows round us roll;
But, hush and sleep, and thou shalt hear
Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer
Judea's fainting soul!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.