Woken one night from sleep, I found then before my sight
A figure in my darkened room which seemed to give forth light.
Thought I, 'oh poet, mortal days are done,
For at your bed waits the Divine this night.
Radience from his beauty streams. I die, or sleep:
No mortal being could bring me such delight.'
Whether closed my eyes, or open, yet
Still burned my soul with this inflaming light.
Eyes open then, I spoke unto the form.
He spoke not back, but joined me for the night.
What blessings could I, wretch, have earned?
What deed did I, or what wrong did I right,
That on that night, and many since,
The Radient Beloved deemed me worth his light?
