STEER, hither steer your winged pines,
   All beaten mariners!
Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
   A prey to passengers--
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.
   Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you save our lips;
   But come on shore,
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts,
   Where never storms arise,
Exchange, and be awhile our guests:
   For stars gaze on our eyes.
The compass Love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,
   We will not miss
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.
   --Then come on shore,
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.