The Indian to His Love

The island dreams under the dawn
And great boughs1 drop tranquillity2；

The peahens dance on a smooth lawn，

A parrot sways upon a tree，

Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea.

Here we will moor3 our lonely ship

And wander ever with woven hands，

Murmuring softly lip to lip，

Along the grass， along the sands，

Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands：

How we alone of mortals are

Hid under quiet boughs apart，

While our love grows an Indian star，

A meteor of the burning heart，

One with the tide that gleams， the wings that gleam and dart4，

The heavy boughs， the burnished5 dove

That moans and sighs a hundred days：

How when we die our shades will rove，

When eve has hushed the feathered ways，

With vapoury footsole by the waters drowsy6 blaze.