| The island dreams under the dawn |
| And great boughs drop tranquillity; |
| The peahens dance on a smooth
lawn, |
| A parrot sways upon a tree, |
| Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea. |
|
|
|
|
| Here we will moor
our lonely ship |
| And wander ever with woven hands, |
| Murmuring softly lip to lip, |
| Along the grass, along
the sands, |
| Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands: |
|
|
|
|
| How we alone of mortals are |
| Hid under quiet
boughs apart, |
| While our love grows an Indian star, |
| A meteor of the burning heart, |
| One with the tide that
gleams, the wings that gleam and dart, |
| The heavy boughs, the burnished dove |
| That moans and sighs a
hundred days: |
| How when we die our shades will rove, |
| When eve has hushed the feathered ways, |
| With
vapoury footsole by the water’s drowsy blaze. |