THE island dreams under the dawn <br />And great boughs drop tranquillity; <br />The peahens dance on a smooth lawn, <br />A parrot sways upon a tree, <br />Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea. <br />Here we will moor our lonely ship <br />And wander ever with woven hands, <br />Murmuring softly lip to lip, <br />Along the grass, along the sands, <br />Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands: <br />How we alone of mortals are <br />Hid under quiet boughs apart, <br />While our love grows an Indian star, <br />A meteor of the burning heart, <br />One with the tide that gleams, the wings that gleam <br />and dart, <br />The heavy boughs, the burnished dove <br />That moans and sighs a hundred days: <br />How when we die our shades will rove, <br />When eve has hushed the feathered ways, <br />With vapoury footsole by the water's drowsy blaze.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-indian-to-his-love/
