Nightingales warble about it,
 All night under blossom and star;
The wild swan is dying without it,
 And the eagle crieth afar;
The sun he doth mount but to find it,
 Searching the green earth o'er;
But more doth a man's heart mind it,
 Oh, more, more, more!

Over the gray leagues of ocean
 The infinite yearneth alone;
The forests with wandering emotion
 The thing they know not intone;
Creation arose but to see it,
 A million lamps in the blue;
But a lover he shall be it
 If one sweet maid is true.