JOY SUPREME

The birds are pirates of her notes,

The blossoms steal her face's light;

The stars in ambush lie all day,

To take her glances for the night.

Her voice can shame rain-pelted leaves;

Young robin has no notes as sweet

In autumn, when the air is still,

And all the other birds are mute.

When I set eyes on ripe, red plums

That seem a sin and shame to bite,

Such are her lips, which I would kiss,

And still would keep before my sight.

When I behold proud gossamer

Make silent billows in the air,

Then think I of her head's fine stuff,

Finer than gossamer's, I swear.

The miser has his joy, with gold

Beneath his pillow in the night;

My head shall lie on soft warm hair,

And miser's know not that delight.

Captains that own their ships can boast

Their joy to feel the rolling brine —

But I shall lie near her, and feel

Her soft warm bosom swell on mine.