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.