автор: glishev

The fiery gold of olden hoards
is treasur’d in thy hair.
Thy song resounds in my ship’s boards,
with mirth it fills the air.
Thy hands are tender, soft thy face,
yet there is strength in thee.
Thy breath is sweet. ‘Tis queenly grace
when thou do smile to me.

These eyes of thine are full of light
of stars and sun, and burst
in flames which are so warm and bright,
They make me feel athirst.

I wish I had these, fairest maid:
thy laughter and thy kiss.
And should I pray, I’d have thus said:
“Thy lips hide heaven’s bliss”.

Yet is that love? I dare not say,
for woes between us stand.
But my heart wants thee, so it may
that my ship seeks thy land.


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