I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!
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a sadness that may not die
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 foam: I and you!
to white birds on the foam: I and you!
Bend low, that I may crown you, flower of the branch
silver fish my hands have taken from the running stream,
morning star, trembling in the heavens like a white fawn on the border of a wood
Bend that I may crown you, that I may crown you.
Were we only white birds, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea,
white birds on the foam of the sea.!