And gifts however bright and fair to see,
Rare trophies peril won by land and sea,
Yet Love his own chief offering must be.
All that the flower of Love may yield is thine,
From blushing bud to clusters on the vine,
With colors rich as rubies from the mine,
And odors mounting to the soul like wine.
But all, I know, is paltry in thine eyes,
So far above them all thy worth doth rise.
In vain my muse with feeble pinions tries