Alfred Noyes (1880–1958)

THE YOUNG moon is white,

But the willows are blue:

Your small lips are red,

But the great clouds are gray:

The waves are so many

That whisper to you;

But my love is only

One flight of spray.

The bright drops are many,

The dark wave is one:

The dark wave subsides,

And the bright sea remains!

And wherever, O singing

Maid, you may run,

You are one with the world

For all your pains.

Tho’ the great skies are dark,

And your small feet are white,

Tho’ your wide eyes are blue

And the closed poppies red,

Tho’ the kisses are many

That colour the night,

They are linkèd like pearls

On one golden thread.

Were the gray clouds not made

For the red of your mouth;

The ages for flight

Of the butterfly years;

The sweet of the peach

For the pale lips of drouth,

The sunlight of smiles

For the shadow of tears?

Love, Love is the thread

That has pierced them with bliss!

All their hues are but notes

In one world-wide tune:

Lips, willows and waves,

We are one as we kiss,

And your face and the flowers

Faint away in the moon.