More than the flowers for June,—more than the lonely surges
Long for the sweet West wind that combs their crests and urges
Their white steeds on the way:—
More than the lonely stars when all the heaven is pallid
Long for the countless hosts that round about them rallied
Ere the first gleam of morning's banner grey:

More than the river's heart that longs to hear the laughter
Of the strong far-off sea, and yearneth wildly after
The shadeless waves and sun:
More than the dark-green woods, their bowers with leaves adorning,
Long for the eager kiss of buoyant-hearted morning,
I long for thee,—till love and pain grow one.