Sing whatever is well made,
every man that sings a song:

With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
of night and light and the half-light,
you are more beautiful than any one.

Consume my heart away; sick with desire,
I swear before the dawn comes round again
to love you in the old high way of love.

I know that I shall meet my fate
though now it seems impossible, and so
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
the time for you to taste of that salt breath -
What is there left to say?