Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/72

50 'Tis a dirge for the dead men it mutters— Those weed-entwined strangers who lie With the drift in the whirlpools and gutters— Swoll'n hand or a garment that flutters Wan shreds as the waters rush by, And the flotsam, froth-freckled, rides high.

Is it there that she buries her lovers, This woman in scarlet and black? Those swart caballeros, the drovers— What sovranty set they above hers? Riding in by a drought-beset track To a fate which is worse than the rack.

A queen, no insignia she weareth Save the dark, lustrous crown of her hair: Her beauty the sceptre she beareth: For men and their miseries careth As little as tigresses care For the quivering flesh that they tear.

She is sweet as white peppermint flowers, And harsh as red gum when it drips From the heart of a hardwood that towers Straight up: she hath marvellous powers To draw a man's soul through his lips With a kiss like the stinging of whips.