  O woman, shapely as the swan, On your account I shall not die, The men you've slain—a trivial clan— Were less than I. I ask me shall I die for these, For blossom-teeth and scarlet lips? And shall that delicate swan-shape Bring me eclipse? Well shaped the breasts and smooth the skin, The cheeks are fair, the tresses free; And yet I shall not suffer death, God over me! Those even brows, that hair like gold, Those languorous tones, that virgin way; The flowing limbs, the rounded heel Slight men betray. Thy shining throat and smiling eye, Thy little palm, thy side like foam— I cannot die! O woman, shapely as the swan, In a cunning house hard-reared was I; O bosom white, O well-shaped palm, I shall not die. Padraic Colum |
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