Little pigeon, grave and fleet,
Eye-of-fire, sweet Snowy-wings.
Think you that you can discover
On what great green down my lover
Lies by his sunny sheep and sings?

If you can, O go and greet
Him from me; say She is waiting ...
Not for him. O no! but, sweet,
Say June's nigh and doves, re-mating,
Fill the dancing noontide heat
With melodious debating.

Say the swift swoops from the beam;
Soon the cuckoo must cease calling;
Kingcups flare beside the stream,
That not glides now, but runs brawling;
That wet roses are asteam
In the sun and will be falling.

Say the chestnut sheds his bloom;
Honey from straw hivings oozes;
There's a nightjar in the coombe;
Venus nightly burns, and chooses
Most to blaze above my room;
That the laggard 'tis that loses.

Say the nights are warm and free,
And the great stars swarm above him;
But soon starless night must be.
Yet if all these do not move him,
Tell O tell -- but not too plainly! -- 
That I long for him and love him.