So fair they are I cannot choose; I pluck the rich spoils here and there; I heap them on your waiting arms; I twine them in your hair.
There is no thorn among them all— No sharp sting in the heart of bliss— No bitter in the honeyed cup— No burning in the kiss.
Nay, quote the proverb if you must, And mock the truth you will not see; Nathless, Love’s thornless roses blow Somewhere for you and me.
TREASURE-SHIPS
O beautiful, stately ships, Ye come from over the seas, With every sail full spread To the glad, rejoicing breeze! Ye come from the dusky East, Ye come from the golden West, As birds that out of the far blue sky Fly each to its sheltered nest.
All spoils of the earth ye bring; From the isles of far Cathay, From the fabled shores of the Orient, The realms of eternal day. The prisoned light of a thousand gems, The gleam of the virgin gold, Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl, Shut up in the narrow hold.
Shawls from the looms of Ispahan; Ivory white as milk; Shimmer of satin and rare brocade, And fold upon fold of silk; Gauzes that India’s maidens wear; Spices, and rare perfumes; Fruits that hold in their honeyed cups The wealth of the summer blooms.
The blood of a thousand vines; The cotton’s drifted snow; The fragrant heart of the precious woods That deep in the tropics grow; The strength of the giant hills; The might of the iron ore; The golden corn, and the yellow wheat From earth’s broad threshing-floor.
Yet, O ye beautiful ships! There are ships that come not back, With flying pennant and swelling sail, Over yon shining track! Who can reckon their precious stores, Or measure the might have been? Who can tell what they held for us— The ships that will ne’er come in?