BIEDS AND POETS 11 



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 I soothe ! soothe ! 

 Close on its 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 J think it is heavy with love, with love. 



Oh madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land, 

 With love — with love. 



night ! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the 

 breakers I 

 What is that Utile black thing I see there in the white ? 



Loud! loud! loud! 

 Loud I call to you, my love ! 

 Sigh a/n,d 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 ! 

 moon, do not keep her from me any longer. 



Land ! land ! land ! 

 Whichever way I turn, ok 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. 



rising sta/rs ! 

 Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of 

 you. 



