Though I sing high, and chaunt above her



THOUGH I sing high, and chaunt above her, 
Praising my girl. 
It were not right 
To reckon her the poorer lover ; 

She does not love me less 
For her royal, jewelled speechlessness, 
She is the sapphire, she the light. 
The music in the pearl. 


Not from pert birds we learn the spring-tide 

From open sky. 

What speaks to us 
Closer than far distances that hide 
In woods, what is more dear 
Than a cherry-bough, bees feeding near 
In the soft, proffered blooms ? Lo, I 
Am fed and honoured thus. 


She has the star's own pulse ; its throbbing 

Is a quick light. 
She is a dove 
My soul draws to its breast ; her sobbing 

Is for the warm dark there !
In the heat of her wings I would not care 
My close-housed bird should take her flight 

To magnify our love.