`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.'