Go seek her out all courteously,
     And say I come,
     Wind of spices whose song is ever
     Epithalamium.
     O, hurry over the dark lands
     And run upon the sea
     For seas and lands shall not divide us
     My love and me.

     Now, wind, of your good courtesy
     I pray you go,
     And come into her little garden
     And sing at her window;
     Singing: The bridal wind is blowing
     For Love is at his noon;
     And soon will your true love be with you,
     Soon, O soon.

     My dove, my beautiful one,
     Arise, arise!
     The night-dew lies
     Upon my lips and eyes.

     The odorous winds are weaving
     A music of sighs:
     Arise, arise,
     My dove, my beautiful one!

     I wait by the cedar tree,
     My sister, my love,
     White breast of the dove,
     My breast shall be your bed.

     The pale dew lies
     Like a veil on my head.
     My fair one, my fair dove,
     Arise, arise!

     From dewy dreams, my soul, arise,
     From love's deep slumber and from death,
     For lo! the trees are full of sighs
     Whose leaves the morn admonisheth.

     Eastward the gradual dawn prevails
     Where softly-burning fires appear,
     Making to tremble all those veils
     Of grey and golden gossamer.

     While sweetly, gently, secretly,
     The flowery bells of morn are stirred
     And the wise choirs of faery
     Begin (innumerous!) to be heard.

     O cool is the valley now
     And there, love, will we go
     For many a choir is singing now
     Where Love did sometime go.
     And hear you not the thrushes calling,
     Calling us away?
     O cool and pleasant is the valley
     And there, love, will we stay.

     Because your voice was at my side
     I gave him pain,
     Because within my hand I held
     Your hand again.

     There is no word nor any sign
     Can make amend—
     He is a stranger to me now
     Who was my friend.