Since it is evening,
  let us invent
love's undiscovered
  continent.

What shall we steer by,
  having no chart
but the deliberate
  fraud of the heart?

How shall we find it?
  Beyond what keys
of boyhood's Spanish
  piracies,

false Eldorados
  dim with the tears
of beauty, the last
  of the buccaneers?

Since it is evening,
  let us design
what shall be utterly
  yours and mine.

There will be nothing
  that ever before
beckoned the sail
  or from any shore.

Trees shall be greener
  by mountains more pale,
thrushes outsinging
  the nightingale,

flowers now butterflies,
  now in the grass,
suddenly quiet
  as painted glass,

and fishes of emerald
  dive for the moon,
whose silver is stained
  by the peacock lagoon.

Since it is evening,
  and sailing weather,
let us set out
  for the dream together;

set for the landfall,
  where love and verse
enfranchise forever
  the travellers.