  I Thy feet, That are like little, silver birds, Thou hast set upon pleasant ways; Therefore I will follow thee, Thou Dove of the Golden Eyes, Upon any path will I follow thee, For the light of thy beauty Shines before me like a torch. II Thy feet are white Upon the foam of the sea; Hold me fast, thou bright Swan, Lest I stumble, And into deep waters. III Long have I been But the Singer beneath thy Casement, And now I am weary. I am sick with longing, O my BelovÉd; Therefore bear me with thee Swiftly Upon our road. With the net of thy hair Thou hast fished in the sea, And a strange fish Hast thou caught in thy net; For thy hair, BelovÉd, Holdeth my heart Within its web of gold. V I am weary with love, and thy lips Are night-born poppies. Give me therefore thy lips That I may know sleep. VI I am weary with longing, I am faint with love; For upon my head has the moonlight Fallen As a sword. Skipwith CannÉll
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