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!