Weariness the tune of this evening melody...

Weariness the tune of this evening melody,

Pain the lute to which I sing;

Ah! goddess, why this gray measure

In thy starry harmony?

The white conchof the half-moon

Silent as though all worship's ceased,

No incense-perfume from the forest censer

The breeze brings; all still, like torrid noon.

I row in a black bark on a copper-colored sea,

The sun fades like a golden bubble in its deep;

Weariness the chart that I hold in my hand,

Weariness the tune of this evening melody.