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.