Joy Supreme
W. H. Davies
1871 to 1940
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The birds are pirates of her notes,
The blossoms her face's light;
The stars in ambush lie all day,
To take her glances for the night.
Her voice shame rain-pelted leaves;
Young robin has no notes as
In autumn, when the air is still,
And all other birds are mute.
When I set eyes on ripe, red plums
That seem a sin and shame to bite,
Such are her lips, which I would kiss,
And would keep before my sight.
When I behold proud
Make silent billows in the air,
Then think I her head's fine stuff,
Finer than gossamer's, I swear.
miser has his joy, with gold
Beneath his pillow the night;
My head shall lie on soft warm hair,
And miser's know not that delight.
Captains that own ships can boast
Their joy to feel the rolling brine—
But I shall lie near her, and feel
Her warm bosom swell on mine.
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