html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }'Tis true thou art no silken band
That knits my own with Zoe's hand,
No fairy's chosen fetter;
Yet love himself, if strength alone
Were in his shackles to be shown,
Could hardly find a better.
Thy stoutly twisted hempen strand
Would hang each felon in the land
As high as e'er was Haman;
And—unless heavier than his head
Are hearts by love inhabited,
Would hold the wildest Damon.
But thou—like rods magicians bear,
Of secret power art not aware,
Nor yet to trace art able
The story of one coil that lingers
So lovingly on Zoe's fingers—
Thou highly favor'd cable!
Since first in June, when hemp is green,
And bees and butterflies are seen
Along its blossoms sailing,
Through mellow Autumn's jocund hours,
When warblers from the brown wood's bowers
Are on its seeds regaling—
Till steadying on some top-mast spar
The footsteps of the gallant tar,
Upon the wave careering,
Or pendent from the stately mast,
Through glowing palms thy cordage pass'd,
Some banner bold uprearing.
'Tis strange that aught so void of life
Should have, as if with feeling rife,
The electric power to mingle
The pulses that, upon my word,
I felt just now, together stirr'd,
Through all thy twistings tingle.