Let them who will, content themselves to sing
In trifling pageantry and gilt array,
To pluck the song-beads from the shimmering string
That skirts thy robe. But such my soul doth sway
As makes me hang upon thy breast and say
"I love thee!"—as a mistress?—then mine own;
Blindly and recklessly?—some future day,
Mine eye, from thine clearer and stronger grown,
May thrid the straggling stars and search the deepening dawn.
O, make my soul an argosy of song,
Tranquilly floating on a sea of peace,
As with her rowers beautiful and strong
Some trireme bears among the Isles of Greece
With music-muffled oars! Give safe release
From murky moorings, storms, and rocks that jar,
And let its pearls in purity increase,
Until with singing sails it cross the bar
To melt in golden waves with gems of many a star!