The Voyageur

LIKE the swarthy son of some tropic shore
He sleeps, with his olive bosom bared,
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore.

Like a tawny tiger whom hot hours bore,
When all night long he has growled and glared
At the swarthy son of some tropic shore,

Like a fierce-eyed blossom with heart of gore
That too long in the sun-flushed fields has flared,
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore,

And his scarlet sash that he gaily wore
To tempt Madelon–who his heart has snared,
Like the swarthy son of some tropic shore.

That dusky form might a queen adore–
Prenez garde, Madelon, for a season spared,
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore.

For a season only. What may be in store
For Madelon? She who has never cared! . . .
Like the swarthy son of some tropic shore
He sleeps–in his earrings of brassy ore.