Our ropes are dead maids’ hair,
Our stores are love-shafts fair
⁠And manifold.
⁠We are in love’s land to-day—

Where shall we land you, sweet?
On fields of strange men’s feet,
⁠Or fields near home?
Or where the fire-flowers blow,
Or where the flowers of snow
⁠Or flowers of foam?
⁠We are in love’s hand to-day—

Land me, she says, where love
Shows but one shaft, one dove,
⁠One heart, one hand.
—A shore like that, my dear,
Lies where no man will steer,
⁠No maiden land.