Sans-Joy

Hide your eyes, Angels, beneath your gold phylacteries,
Israfel will charm you with the magic of his song:
Yet you will not smile for him, by reason of your memories,
For Lucifer is absent, and the cry goes up, How long!

For his expiation you would give your dreams and destinies,
Paradise is clouded by the measure of your pain;
Hide your eyes, Angels, beneath your gold phylacteries,
Till the jasper gates swing wide to bring him home again.