Yes, when the stars glisten'd,
All night long, on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake,
Down, almost amid the slapping waves,
Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.
  
He call'd on his mate;
He pour'd forth the meanings which I, of all men, know.
  
Yes, my brother, I know;
The rest might not -- but I have treasur'd every note;
For [once, and]1 more than once, dimly, down to the beach gliding,
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes,
   the sounds and sights after their sorts,
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,
Listen'd long and long.
  
Listen'd, to keep, to sing -- now translating the notes,
Following you, my brother.