When the red coral of your lip is pale
As the bleached sea-sand, ah, wearily, wearily,
Will you behold your face, your fingers frail,
Gnarled like a wind-blown tree; your star-bright eyes
Blind as a cloudy midnight without moon.
No more fair necklaces nor scarlet dyes
Can make you cruel to men, for soon, so soon,
Your heart will bear the years — ah, wearily, wearily.
Then I, your scorn, shall still be man and chief;
Turning to free your hands so carelessly, carelessly,
You will be dead to love past all belief.
Still round the slender columns of the palm
The moon shall lie in shivering, silver pools,
Still shall the trades lash through the summer calm
While twilight with her smile the island cools
And Time forgets your presence, carelessly, carelessly.