O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees, ... Ye, vastest breathers of the…

Come, let us make love deathless, thou and I, Seeing that our footing on the Earth is brief— Seeing that her multitudes sweep out to die Mocking at all that passes their belief.

She comes not when Noon is on the roses— Too bright is Day. She comes not to the Soul till it reposes From work and play. But when Night is on the hills, and the great Voices Roll in from Sea, By starlight and by candlelight and dreamlight …

But she, like sighing forests, Stole on me—full of rest, Her hair was like the sea's wave, Whiteness was in her breast,— (So does one come, at night, upon a wall of roses.)

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice!

We'll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly, Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy: Fish-dinners will make a lass spring like a flea, Dame Venus, love's lady, Was born of the sea.