I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the

foam of the sea!

We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade

and flee;

And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low

on the rim of the sky,

Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that

may not die.

A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled,

the lily and rose;

Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the

meteor that goes,

Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in

the fall of the dew:

For I would we were changed to white birds on the

wandering foam: I and you!

I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a

Danaan shore,

Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come

near us no more;

Soon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the

flames would we be,

Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on

the foam of the sea!