  SCARLET her cloak, her lips all scarlet too, Her cloudy hair as golden as the leaves Of the sun-mellowed hickories, her voice The rich, low whispers of the brooks that please By hinting Autumn mysteries, her eyes Witch-lights of laughter and of mad surprise. Oh, gypsy prodigal, who gives and gives, Till penury in winter strips you bare, Cover me with the splendor of your locks, Let your eyes challenge me from dull despair— Wake me and sting me till I, too, shall sweep Round in the revels that your whirlwinds keep. Clinton Dangerfield. |
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