The discovery of gold in your swelling-up breasts
Lets adventurer hold all your daring success
In affirming of you and your spirit’s attire
Of your joy-life’s up-lift for that miner’s new lyre.
He will sing, it may be, first of stars, then of sun;
Then of gold flowers blooming, till bending and done.
He will sing of great towers gleaming golden in air,
But with hills of your beauty they will never compare.
Now a string, it is struck; ’tis a note low, yet high—
‘Tis a swinging vibration; it can kneel, it can fly;
For the worshipping miner has a claim of such worth
It is more than all cities or empires on earth!