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.