The moon is woo'd by her wild lord the sea,
Whose yearning waves wax wanton in their joy,
Upheaving amorously; he fain would toy
With his sweet moon, as I would toy with thee. In long low sighs he uttereth his plea;
She half unveils her face, as maiden coy,
Then beams her love; he doth the winds employ
To messenger his speech, while listeneth she. Her image in his breast she sees tonight
In broken gold, whene'er his voice is rough;
So thou may'st see thy face of moon-pale light
In my true eyes, if thou look close enough.
She draws her sea's deep heart. Thou draw'st thy knight,
Whose heart-tide sets to thee, nor fears rebuff.