Poetry Archives

Steer, hither steer your wingèd pines,
    All beaten mariners!
Here lie Love’s undiscover’d mines,
    A prey to passengers—
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phoenix’ urn and nest.
    Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you save our lips;
    But come on shore,
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts,
    Where never storms arise,
Exchange, and be awhile our guests:
    For stars gaze on our eyes.
The compass Love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,
    We will not miss
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.
    —Then come on shore,
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.