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I’d stroll beyond the ancient bounds,
And tap at fastened gates,
And hear the prettiest of sounds,—
The clink of shattered fates.
My slaves I’d like to bind with thongs
That cut and burn and chill. . . .
But I am writing little songs,
As little ladies will.
And tap at fastened gates,
And hear the prettiest of sounds,—
The clink of shattered fates.
My slaves I’d like to bind with thongs
That cut and burn and chill. . . .
But I am writing little songs,
As little ladies will.
[71]
