"I hope that thou wilt be my friend, oh Spring, And give me service of thy winds and streams. It needs must be that he will hear thy voice For thou art much as I was when he woo'd And won me long ago beside the Dee. "If he should bend above you, oh ye streams And any where you look up into eyes And think the star of love hath found her mate And know, because of day, they are not stars; Oh streams, they are the eyes of my beloved! Oh murmur as I murmured once of old And he will stay beside you, oh ye streams, And I shall clasp him when my day is come. "Likewise I charge thee, west wind, zephyr wind, If thou shalt hear a voice more sweet than thine About a sunset rose-tree deep in June, Sweeter than thine, oh wind, when thou dost leap Into the tree with passion, putting by The maiden leaves that ruffle round their dame, And singest and art silent--having dropt In pleasure on the bosom of the rose-- Oh wind, it is the voice of my beloved. Wake, wake, and bear me to the voice, oh wind! "Moreover I do think that the spring birds Will be my willing servants. Wheresoe'er There mourns a hen-bird that hath lost her mate Her will I tell my sorrow--weeping hers. "And if it be a Lark whereto I speak She shall be ware of how my Love went up Sole singing to the cloud; and evermore I hear his song, but him I can not see. "And if it be a female Nightingale That pineth in the depth of silent woods, I also will complain to her that night Is still. And of the creeping of the winds, And of the sullen trees, and of the lone Dumb Dark. And of the listening of the Stars. What have we done, what have we done, oh Night! "Therefore, oh Love, the summer trees shall be My watch-towers. Wheresoe'er thou liest bound I will be there. For ere the Spring be past I will have preached my dolor through the Land, And not a bird but shall have all my woe. --And whatsoever hath my woe hath me. "I charge you, oh ye flowers fresh from the dead, Declare if ye have seen him. You pale flowers Why do you quake and hang the head like me? "You pallid flowers, why do ye watch the dust And tremble? Ah, you met him in your caves And shrank out shuddering on the wintry air. "Snowdrops, you need not gaze upon the ground, Fear not. He will not follow ye; for then I should be happy who am doomed to woe. "Only I bid ye say that he is there, That I may know my grief is to be borne And all my fate is but the common lot." She sat down on a bank of Primroses Swayed to and fro, as in a wind of Thought That moaned about her, murmuring alow, "The common lot, oh for the common lot." Thus spoke she, and behold a gust of grief Smote her. As when at night the dreaming wind Starts up enraged, and shakes the Trees and sleeps.