Why be at pains that I should know

   You sought not me?

Do breezes, then, make features glow

   So rosily?

Come, the lit port is at our back,

   And the tumbling sea;

Elsewhere the lampless uphill track

   To uncertainty!

O should not we two waifs join hands?

   I am alone,

You would enrich me more than lands

   By being my own.

Yet, though this facile moment flies,

   Close is your tone,

And ere to-morrow’s dewfall dries

   I plough the unknown.