OLD Man, your pearls are not for us,

Your rubies die too soon:

Have you the pearls of Sirius,

Or opals of the moon?

I do not ask for other gems;

Flashing with frost and fire

The sky's undying diadems

Shall be my love's attire.

Emeralds, that into rubies melt

Upon the brow of night,

I've taken from Orion's belt

To make her girdle bright.

On high ways of the albatross

I scale the purple air

For sapphires of the Southern Cross

And wreath them in her hair

Her robe it is the morning sky,

Her veil it is the West;

So robed, so veiled my love will fly.

When I am gone to rest.

Yet all the rays of all the moons,

The lights of all the skies

Are pale beside the dim lagoons

Of those mysterious eyes.

Old Man, your pearls are not for us,

Your rubies die too soon:

Have you the pearls of Sirius,

Or opals of the moon