The Indian to His Love

    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 water‘s drowsy⁶ blaze.