Whither O whither love shall we go,
For a score of sweet little summers or so'
The sweet little wife of the singer said,
On the day that follow'd the day she was wed,
'Whither O whither love shall we go?'
And the singer shaking his curly head
Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys
There at his right with a sudden crash,
Singing, 'and shall it be over the seas
With a crew that is neither rude nor rash,
But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd,
In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd,
With a satin sail of a ruby glow,
To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know,
A mountain islet pointed and peak'd;
Waves on a diamond shingle dash,
Cataract brooks to the ocean run,
Fairily-delicate palaces shine
Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine,
And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd
With many a rivulet high against the Sun
The facets of the glorious mountain flash
Above the valleys of palm and pine.'

'Thither O thither, love, let us go.'

'No, no, no!
For in all that exquisite isle, my dear,
There is but one bird with a musical throat,
And his compass is but of a single note,
That it makes one weary to hear.'

'Mock me not! mock me not! love, let us go.'

'No, love, no.
For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree,
And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea,
And a worm is there in the lonely wood,
That pierces the liver and blackens the blood,
And makes it a sorrow to be.'

There was a morrice on the moonlight plain, 
And music echoed in the woody glade, 
For fay-like forms, as of Titania's train, 
Upon a summer eve, beneath the shade 
Of Netley's ivied ruins, to the sound 
Of sprightly minstrelsy did beat the ground:—
Come, take hands! and lightly move, 
While our boat, in yonder cove, 
Rests upon the darkening sea; 
Come, take hands, and follow me! 

Netley! thy dim and desolated fane 
Hath heard, perhaps, the spirits of the night 
Shrieking, at times, amid the wind and rain; 
Or haply, when the full-orbed moon shone bright, 
Thy glimmering aisles have echoed to the song 
Of fairy Mab, who led her shadowy masque along. 
Now, as to the sprightly sound 
Of moonlight minstrelsy we beat the ground; 
From the pale nooks, in accent clear, 
Now, methinks, her voice I hear, 
Sounding o'er the darksome sea; 
Come, take hands, and follow me! 

Here, beneath the solemn wood, 
When faintly-blue is all the sky, 
And the moon is still on high, 
To the murmurs of the flood, 
To the glimpses of the night, 
We perform our airy rite; — 
Care and pain to us unknown, 
To the darkening seas are flown. 

Hear no more life's fretful noise, 
Heed not here pale Envy's sting, 
Far from life's distempered joys; 
To the waters murmuring, 
To the shadows of the sky, 
To the moon that rides on high, 
To the glimpses of the night, 
We perform our airy rite, 
While care and pain, to us unknown, 
To the darkening seas are flown.