SHE is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs; In the sun ’tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea. She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the graveGently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Searching my heart for its true sorrow,This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people, Sick of the city, wanting the sea

How shall I know, unless I goTo Cairo and Cathay,Whether or not this blessed spotIs blest in every way?Now it may be, the flower for meIs this beneath my nose;How shall I tell, unless I smellThe Carthaginian rose?The fabric of my faithful loveNo power shall dim or ravelWhilst I stay here,—but oh, my dear,If I should ever travel!

You leave me much against my will.

But there comes to birth no common spawnFrom the love of a priest for a leprechaun,And you never have seen and you never will seeSuch things as the things that swaddled me!

All right,Go ahead!What's in a name? I guess I'll be locked intoAs much as I'm locked out of!