The Birds Are Pirates Of Her Notes, The Blossoms Steal Her Face'S Light; The Stars In Ambush Lie All Day, To Take Her Glances For The Night. Her Voice Can Shame Rain-Pelted Leaves; Young Robin Has No Notes As Sweet In Autumn, When The Air Is Still, And All The Other Birds Are Mute. When I Set Eyes On Ripe, Red Plums That Seem A Sin And Shame To Bite, Such Are Her Lips, Which I Would Kiss, And Still Would Keep Before My Sight. When I Behold Proud Gossamer Make Silent Billows In The Air, Then Think I Of Her Head'S Fine Stuff, Finer Than Gossamer'S, I Swear. The Miser Has His Joy, With Gold Beneath His Pillow In The Night; My Head Shall Lie On Soft Warm Hair, And Miser'S Know Not That Delight. Captains That Own Their Ships Can Boast Their Joy To Feel The Rolling Brine, But I Shall Lie Near Her, And Feel Her Soft Warm Bosom Swell On Mine.