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.
O throat! O trembling throat! Sound clearer through the atmosphere! Pierce the woods, the earth, Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want.
Shake out carols! Solitary here, the night’s carols! Carols of lonesome love! death’s carols! Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea! O reckless despairing carols.
But soft! sink low! Soft! let me just murmur, And do you wait a moment you husky-nois’d sea, For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, So faint, I must be still, be still to listen, But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me.