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 flee;
 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 shore,
 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!