Willard Wattles

I WHO have known your beauty

And bent beneath your spell,

Harry the hills of booty

Unbroken as Ishmael.

The white feet of your going

Turn and turn again

In a little round of the knowing

Bruised heart of pain.

But the cloud of your hair falling,

And the glory of your white hands,

Are mine past the bane’s recalling

In the inviolable lands.