Clinton Scollard (1860–1932)

ROUND as the roe’s egg of the Arab tale,

And flawless white as was that fabled sphere,

I see it shine below my lady’s ear,

This prize-plucked bauble from an ocean vale.

Was it where round Ceylon the swift ships sail,

A daring diver clove, without a fear,

Palm-shaded waves through fathoms emerald clear,

And brought it forth ’mid strenuous shout and hail?

Methinks from some far Eastern isle it came,

Because it giveth to her tranquil face

An Orient languor and a slumberous grace;

But where, O where, in lands without a name,

Near what soft cheek’s pure-glowing altar flame

Could it have found so fair a resting place?