By George Sterling

As music out of silence, Craig, so came
    Thy love from mystery; so, darling, now
    The lilies are less radiant than thy brow,
On which my heart beholds celestial flame.
Thou art all white, my queen; there is no name
    In all the lore of love for such as thou;
    The moon s wan breast, the foam beneath the prow,
The cherry bloom—thou bringest them to shame!

Thou art too fair! How shall I worship thee,
    Thou sister of the dawn? How cry thy praise?
    Nay! tho' I sing thro' many dusks and days
I cannot tell with words thy gift to me,
    Who, ere Heaven's crystal gleamed beneath my feet,
    Hast made the tale of all its bliss complete.


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