Across the mountains the mist hath drawn
A cov'ring of bridal white;
The plains afar make lament, and mourn
That the flutt'ring veil of the mist-wreaths born
Hath hidden the mountains from sight.

The soldier lay smiling peacefully
Asleep in his tent on the sward,
The moon crept in and said: "Look at me,
A glance from thy sweetheart am I, for thee!"
But he answered: "I have my sword."

Then the rustling wind drew softly near,
Played round him with whispers light:
"I am the sighs of thy mother dear,
The sighs of thy mother am I, dost hear?"
But he answered: "I have the fight."

Then night sank down from the dark'ning sky
Round the sleeper, and murmured: "Rest,
Thy sweetheart's veil o'er thy face doth lie!"
But he answered: "No need of it have I,
For the banner doth cover me best."

By his tent the river, clear and wide,
Rolled onward its silver flood,
And said: "I am water, the cleansing tide
More blessèd than aught in the world beside."
But he answered: "I have my blood."

Then Sleep drew near to his tent, and low
She whispered with soothing breath:
"I am Sleep, the healer of ev'ry woe,
The dearest treasure of man below."
But the soldier replied: "I have Death."

Across the mountains the mist hath drawn
A cov'ring of bridal white;
The plains afar make lament, and mourn
That the flutt'ring veil of the mist-wreaths born
Hath hidden the mountains from sight.