WILL you conquer my heart with your beauty; my soul going out from afar?|
Shall I fall to your hand as a victim of crafty and cautions shikar?
Have I met you and passed you already, unknowing, unthinking and blind?
Does the P. and O. bear you to meward, or, clad in short frocks in the West,
Will you stay in the Plains till September—my passion as warm as the day?
When the light of your eyes shall make pallid the mean lesser lights I pursue,
When the peg and the pig-skin shall please not; when I buy me Calcutta-build clothes;
As a deer to the hand of the hunter when I turn ’mid the gibes of my friends;
Ah, Goddess! child, spinster, or widow—as of old on Mars Hill whey they raised
The Goddess I know not nor worship; yet, if half that men tell me be true,