A WOMAN'S CHARMS

My purse is yours, Sweet Heart, for I

Can count no coins with you close by;

I scorn like sailors them, when they

Have drawn on shore their deep-sea pay;

Only my thoughts I value now,

Which, like the simple glowworms, throw

Their beams to greet thee bravely, Love —

Their glorious light in Heaven above.

Since I have felt thy waves of light,

Beating against my soul, the sight

Of gems from Afric's continent

Move me to no great wonderment.

Since I, Sweet Heart, have known thine hair,

The fur of ermine, sable, bear,

Or silver fox, for me can keep

No more to praise than common sheep.

Though ten Isaiahs’ souls were mine,

They could not sing such charms as thine.

Two little hands that show with pride,

Two timid, little feet that hide;

Two eyes no dark Senoras show

Their burning like in Mexico;

Two coral gates wherein is shown

Your queen of charms, on a white throne;

Your queen of charms, the lovely smile

That on its white throne could beguile

The mastiff from his gates in hell;

Who by no whine or bark could tell

His masters what thing made him go —

And countless other charms I know.

October's hedge has far less hues

Than thou hast charms from which to choose.