Blow! blow! blow! 
 Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore! 
 I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.

 Yes, when the stars glistened,
 All night long, on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake,
 Down, almost amid the slapping waves,
 Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.

 He called on his mate: 
 He poured forth the meanings which I, of all men, know.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Soothe! soothe! soothe!  Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me.

 Low hangs the moon—­it rose late. 
 Oh it is lagging—­oh I think it is heavy with love, with love.

 Oh madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land,
 With love—­with love.

 O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers! 
 What is that little black thing I see there in the white?

Loud! loud! loud!  Loud I call to you, my love!  High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves:  Surely you must know who is here, is here; You must know who I am, my love.

Low-hanging moon!  What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?  Oh it is the shape, the shape of my mate!  O moon, do not keep her from me any longer.

 Land! land!  O land! 
 Whichever way I turn, oh I think you could give my mate back again,
    if you only would;
 For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.

 O rising stars! 
 Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you.

O throat!  O trembling throat!  Sound clearer through the atmosphere!  Pierce the woods, the earth; Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want.

Shake out, carols!  Solitary here—­the night’s carols!  Carols of lonesome love!  Death’s carols!  Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!  Oh, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea!  O reckless, despairing carols.

 But soft! sink low!  Soft! let me just murmur;
 And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea;
 For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,
 So faint—­I must be still, be still to listen! 
 But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately
   to me.

Hither, my love!  Here I am!  Here!  With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you; This gentle call is for you, my love, for you.

Do not be decoyed elsewhere!  That is the whistle of the wind—­it is not my voice; That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray; Those are the shadows of leaves.

 O darkness!  Oh in vain! 
 Oh I am very sick and sorrowful.