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A sheik once took a harlot in her shame,
Calling the poor soul many an ugly name;
"'Tis true," she wept, "all I appear I am;
But, sheik, of thee would I could say the same!"
O speak not evil of these dancing flowers,
These girls that arrogantly we call ours—
Yours, mine, and any one's who bids and buys—
0 God! the pity of the fate of flowers!
Yea, none shall tell that I have turned away,
Ungrateful, when some woman bid me stay;
The golden invitation of a friend
I answered ever with a thankful "Yea."
My days are filled with wonder and with wine,
(Wine helps the wonder, wonder helps the wine,)
But in the night my bosom fills with tears—
Tears, tears, for one who never can be mine.
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