Steer hither, steer your winged pines,	
All-beaten mariners!	
Here lie Love's undiscovered 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.]1

[For swelling waves our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,
Exchange, and be awhile our guests;
For stars gaze on our eyes.]1
The compass Love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,
We [shall]2 not miss
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss,
Then come on shore,
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.