e moon bleach through the ragged
Tree-tops ere we reach yon jagged
Rock, that rises gradually,
Pharos of our homeward valley?--
All the west is smouldering red;
Embers are the stars o'erhead.

At my soul some Protean elf is;
You're Simaetha; I am Delphis.
You are Sappho and your Phaon,
I.--We love.--There lies a ray on
All the Dark AEolian seas
'Round the violet Lesbian leas.

On we drift. I love you. Nearer
Looms our island. Rosier, clearer,
The Leucadian cliff we follow,
Where the temple of Apollo
Shines--a pale and pillared fire....
Strike, oh, strike the Lydian lyre!--
While in Hellas still we seem,
Let us sing of that we dream.

8

_Landing, he sings._

Night, night, 'tis night. The moon drifts low above us,
And all its gold is tangled in the stream:
Love, love, my love, and all the stars, that love us,
The stars smile down and every star's a dream.

In odorous purple, where the falling warble
Of water cascades and the plunged foam glows,
A columned ruin lifts its sculptured marble
Friezed with the chiselled rebeck and the rose.

_She sings._

Sleep, Sleep, sweet Sleep sleeps at the drifting tiller,
And in our sail the Spirit of the Rain--
Love, love, my love, ah, bid thy heart be stiller,
And, hark! the music of the resonant main.

What flowers are those that blow their balm unto us
From mouths of wild aroma, each a flame?--
That breathe of love, of love we know that drew us,
That kissed our eyes, so we might see the same.

_He speaks._

Night, night, 'tis night!--no dream is this to banish;
The temple and the nightingale _are_ there!
Our love has made them, nevermore to vanish,
Real as yon moon, this wild-rose in your hair.

Night, night, 'tis night!--and love's own star's before us,
Its bright reflection in the starry stream--
Yes, yes, ah, yes! its presence shall watch o'er us,
Night, night, to-night, and every night we dream.

9

_Homeward through flowers; she speaks:_

Behold the offerings of the common hills!
Whose lowly names have made them three times dear:
The evening-primrose and dim multitudes
Of violets that sky the mossy dells
With heaven's ambrosial blue; dew-dripping plumes
Of mauve lobelias; and the red-stained cups
Of blackberry-lilies all along the creek,
Where, lulled, the freckled silence sleeps, and vague

The water flows; where, at high noon, the cow