Viii

Landing, he sings:

Night, night, ’t is night. The moon drifts low above us, And all its gold is tangled in the stream: Love, love, my love, and all the stars, that love us, The stars smile down and every star ’s a dream.

In odorous purple, where the falling warble Of water cascades and the plunged foam glows, A columned ruin lifts its sculptured marble Friezed with the chiselled rebeck and the rose.

She sings:

Sleep, sleep, sweet sleep sleeps at the drifting tiller, And in our sail the Spirit of the Rain-- Love, love, my love, ah, bid thy heart be stiller, And, hark! the music of the singing main.

What flowers are those that blow their balm unto us, From mouths of wild aroma, each a flame?-- Or is it Love that breathes? sweet Love who drew us, Who kissed our eyes and made us see the same?

He speaks:

Dreams; dreams we dream! no dream that we would banish! The temple and the nightingale are there! Our love hath made them, nevermore to vanish, Real as yon moon, this wild-rose in your hair.

Night, night, ’tis night!--and Love’s own star ’s before us, Its starred reflection in the starry stream.-- Yes, yes, ah yes! his presence shall watch o’er us, To-night, to-night, and every night we dream.