  NO ripple stirs the water, No song-bird wakes the grove, Calm noon-tide sways his sceptre, And hushes even love. On earth the sun-god bending Poureth his wondrous store; The soft-tongued tide, advancing, Laps the unconscious shore. The long, low isle of marsh-land Stretches in weary waste, By sloping sand-banks guarded, By winding weeds embraced. Comes clearly from the open The plash of distant oars,— Over the rocky headland The snow-white sea-gull soars. I see as if through dream-clouds, I hear from far away. The scorched air breathes its opiate, The drowsy fancies stay; I have no hopes or longings, I scarce can feel your kiss,— For thought, and joy and worship, Another hour than this! |
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