The sum of my worldly goods
Would not fill even one hand
Cupped, as if to measure salt.
Yet the galaxies of thought,
Page upon page, as far as light
Has yet reached, this realm—
It is the sum of my presence.
All these mortal moments,
Bitter, rich, sweet, and piquant,
They are the ransom of an empress,
For which secret treasure palaces
Must be built, sighing
With the voices of sea and wild wind,
And all the stars of heaven.