No ripple stirs the water,
No song-bird wakes the grove,
Calm noon-tide sways his sceptre,
And hushes even love.
On earth the sun-god bending
Poureth his wondrous store;
The soft-tongued tide, advancing,
Laps the unconscious shore.
The long, low isle of marsh-land
Stretches in weary waste,
By sloping sand-banks guarded,
By winding weeds embraced.
Comes clearly from the open
The plash of distant oars, -
Over the rocky headland
The snow-white sea-gull soars.
I see as if through dream-clouds,
I hear from far away.
The scorched air breathes its opiate,
The drowsy fancies stay;
I have no hopes or longings,
I scarce can feel your kiss, -
For thought, and joy and worship,
Another hour than this!