Listen’d to keep, to sing, now translating the notes, Following you my brother.

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, It is lagging⁠—O I think it is heavy with love, with love.

O madly the sea pushes upon the land, With love, with love.

O night! do I not see my love fluttering out 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! What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? O it is the shape, the shape of my mate! O moon do not keep her from me any longer.

Land! land! O land! Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again if you only would, For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.

O rising stars! Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you.