Xxvi

A South-Sea Lover Scorned

When the red coral of your lip is pale As the bleached sea-sand, ah, wearily, wearily, Will you behold your face, your fingers frail, Gnarled like a wind-blown tree; your star-bright eyes Blind as a cloudy midnight without moon. No more fair necklaces nor scarlet dyes Can make you cruel to men, for soon, so soon, Your heart will bear the years--ah, wearily, wearily.

Then I, your scorn, shall still be man and chief; Turning to free your hands so carelessly, carelessly, You will be dead to love past all belief. Still round the slender columns of the palm The moon shall lie in shivering, silver pools, Still shall the trades lash through the summer calm While twilight with her smile the island cools And Time forgets your presence, carelessly, carelessly.