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 misers 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BODY BREAKING by MARVIN BELL ON THE RUINS OF A COUNTRY INN by PHILIP FRENEAU ON HEARING A LITTLE MUSIC-BOX by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT ON BEING BROUGHT FROM AFRICA TO AMERICA by PHILLIS WHEATLEY DEATH AND THE LADY; THEIR BARGAIN TOLD AGAIN by LEONIE ADAMS |