By George Sterling
To what fair thing, O thou my Sweet! Shall best I liken thee?— Thou, white as where the sea Breaks to the foam-flowers delicate and sweet! Shall I go forth upon the wave To seek, perchance to find, Afar from sin and wind, A moonlike pearl within an ocean cave?— Then, clasping that, return and say: "Thou art more fair than this: Thy maiden bosom is More white than snows beneath the moon or day?" And then, should not I yearn to cry: "Thy forehead is as white, Oh! and thine eyes' strange light Sweeter than any stars that take the sky?" But thou, I dream, wouldst silent stand With those great eyes of thine, Young, exquisite, divine, Turned for a moment on my trembling hand, And smile a little sadly, till I knew my gift in vain. And all for naught the pain Whose tears of love my hopeless eyes should fill!