For works with similar titles, see Tidings.
TIDINGS
LISTEN, I who love thee well
Have travelled far, and secrets tell;
Cold the moon that gleams thine eyes,
Yet beneath her further skies
Rests for thee, a paradise.
I have plucked a flower in proof,
Frail, in earthly light forsooth;
See, invisible it lies
In this palm: now veil thine eyes:
Quaff its fragrancies.
Would indeed my throat had skill
To breathe thee music, faint and still-
Music learned in dreaming deep
In those lands, from Echo's lip . . .
'Twould lull thy soul to sleep.