Of winter, famishing, who bay in pack,
When the full moon hangs low, and golden grows,
Over the rim of the Atlantic waste.
“So swept I out my house and garnished it,
In preparation for the perfect guest,
Who comes on dove’s wings silently, nor thought
That one on sable wings, more silently,
Would enter in and take the seat of Love.
Rumour, that travels on each wanton wind,
Swifter than birds may fly, from tongue to tongue