Come, ye sorrowful, and steep Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep:
For our kisses lightlier run Than the traceries of the sun By the lolling water cast Up grey precipices vast,
Lifting smooth and waem and steep Out of the palely shimmering deep.
Come, ye sorrowul, and take Kisses that are but half awake:
For here are eyes O softer far Than the blossom of the star Upon the mothy twilit waters,
And here are mouths whose gentle laughters Are but the echoes of the deep Laughing and murmuring in its sleep.
Come, ye sorrowful, and see The raindrops flaming goldenly On the stream's eddies overhead And dragonflies with drops of red In the crisp surface of each wing Threading slant rains that flash and sing,
Or under the water-lily's cup,
From darkling depths, roll slowly up The bronze flanks of ancient bream Into the hot sun's shattered beam,
Or over a sunk tree's bubbled bole The perch stream in a golden shoal:
Come, ye sorrowful; our deep Holds dreams lovelier than sleep.
But if ye sons of Sorrow come Only wishing to be numb:
Our eyes are sad as bluebell posies,
Our breasts are soft as silken roses,
And our hands are tenderer Than he breaths that scarce can stir The sunlit eglantine that is Murmurous with hidden bees.
Come, ye sorrowful, and steep Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep.
Come, ye sorrowful, for here No voices sound but fond and clear Of mouths as lorn as is the rose That under water doth disclose,
Amid her crimson petals torn,
A heart as golden as the morn;
And here are tresses langourous As the weeds wander over us,
And brows as holy and as bland As the honey-coloured sand Lying sun-entranced below The lazy water's limpid flow:
Come, ye sorrowful, and steep Your tired brows in a nectorous sleep.
