Yes, when the stars glistened, All night long, on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake, Down, almost amid the slapping waves, Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears. He called on his mate: He poured forth the meanings which I, of all men, know. . . . . . . . . . . . _Soothe! soothe! soothe! Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me._ _Low hangs the moon--it rose late. Oh it is lagging--oh I think it is heavy with love, with love._ _Oh madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land, With love--with love._ _O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers! What is that little black thing I see there in the white?_ _Loud! loud! loud! Loud I call to you, my love! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves: Surely you must know who is here, is here; You must know who I am, my love._ _Low-hanging moon! What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? Oh it is the shape, the shape of my mate! O moon, do not keep her from me any longer._ _Land! land! O land! Whichever way I turn, oh I think you could give my mate back again, if you only would; For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look._ _O rising stars! Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you._ _O throat! O trembling throat! Sound clearer through the atmosphere! Pierce the woods, the earth; Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want._ _Shake out, carols! Solitary here--the night's carols! Carols of lonesome love! Death's carols! Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! Oh, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea! O reckless, despairing carols._ _But soft! sink low! Soft! let me just murmur; And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea; For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, So faint--I must be still, be still to listen! But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me._ _Hither, my love! Here I am! Here! With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you; This gentle call is for you, my love, for you._ _Do not be decoyed elsewhere! That is the whistle of the wind--it is not my voice; That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray; Those are the shadows of leaves._ _O darkness! Oh in vain! Oh I am very sick and sorrowful._ . . . . . . . . . . .