The White Birds

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
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.
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!
I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan
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!