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.