Those twin pulses of thickly clotted milk
Ebb and flow through their white valley,
As the salt-tide, in its estuary,
Slowly rises, and slowly ebbs, like silk.
A space is created between them there,
Like a level pass between two hills
That the snowdrift’s whiteness softly fills,
When the gusts of wind have dropped in winter.
There, two gleaming rubies stand erectly,
Whose crimson rays set off that ivory,
Smoothed so uniformly on every side:
There all grace abounds, and every worth,
And beauty, if there’s any on this earth,
Flies to rest there in that sweet paradise.