I would I were the glow-worm, thou the flower, 
That I might fill thy cup with glimmering light; 
I would I were the bird, and thou the bower, 
To sing thee songs throughout the summer night. 

I would I were a pine tree deeply rooted, 
And thou the lofty, cloud-beleaguered rock, 
Still, while the blasts of heaven around us hooted, 
To cleave to thee and weather every shock. 

I would I were the rill, and thou the river; 
So might I, leaping from some headlong steep, 
With all my waters lost in thine for ever, 
Be hurried onwards to the unfathomed deep. 

I would--what would I not? O foolish dreaming! 
My words are but as leaves by autumn shed, 
That, in the faded moonlight idly gleaming, 
Drop on the grave where all our love lies dead.