| 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. |
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| 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! |
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| 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! |