The Page-Boy’s Song
Women are all the same,
Liege, and my lord —
Swift white falcons grown tame,
(Look to your sword!)
And the ware old fox Ulysses
Knew best what comes of their kisses,
Of the serpentine rill that hisses
Clean through their hearts, my lord.
Women are hinds in a park,
No more, my lord —
Timid, an easy mark
For the huntsman idle or bored.
There are whispers of deer that change
To a quarry silvern and strange,
God keep us safe from their range,
My friend, my lord!
Women are lotus lands,
My questing lord,
Delicate resting hands,
The first frail snowflake ignored.
There’s a dungeon behind their eyes,
And it’s oh, for the windswept skies! —
You were safer with enemies,
My trusting lord.