BIRDS AND POETS jl 
Yes, when the stars glistened, 
All night long, on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake, 
Down, almost amid the slapping waves, 
Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears. 
He called on his mate : 
He poured forth the meanings which I, of all men, know. 
Soothe ! soothe! soothe ! 
Close on tts wave soothes the wave behind, 
And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close, 
But my love soothes not me, not me. 
Low hangs the moon — it rose late. 
Oh it is lagging — oh I think it is heavy with love, with love. 
Oh madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land, 
With love — with love. 
O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the 
breakers ! 
What ts that little black thing I see there in the white? 
Loud ! loud! loud ! 
Loud I call to you, my love! 
High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves: 
Surely you must know who is here, is here ; 
You must know who I am, my love. 
Low-hanging moon ! 
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow ? 
Oh it is the shape, the shape of my mate ! 
O moon, do not keep her from me any longer. 
Land! land! O land! 
Whichever way I turn, oh I think you could give my mate back 
again, if you only would ; 
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. 
O rising stars! 
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of 
you. 
