Early and bright to call us up and mark the arc of day, The sun is sinking to its bed of red horizon clay. If you were here beside me, I'd collect you in my arms, Until you dreamt of little islands free of fear and harm. For both of these things are true, my dear; I'd sigh for as restless and long as a year: The setting sun's candling and you, my dear, My heart cannot sleep until they do. And both of these things are true, my dear; I'd sigh for as changing and long as a year: Those last precious raylets and you, my dear, My heart cannot sleep until they do.