The Poetry Corner

Joy Supreme

By William Henry Davies

The birds are pirates of her notes, The blossoms steal her face's light; The stars in ambush lie all day, To take her glances for the night. Her voice can shame rain-pelted leaves; Young robin has no notes as sweet In autumn, when the air is still, And all the 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 still would keep before my sight. When I behold proud gossamer Make silent billows in the air, Then think I of her head's fine stuff, Finer than gossamer's, I swear. The miser has his joy, with gold Beneath his pillow in the night; My head shall lie on soft warm hair, And miser's know not that delight. Captains that own their ships can boast Their joy to feel the rolling brine, But I shall lie near her, and feel Her soft warm bosom swell on mine.