To make the nape of your neck grow chill,
And every vein surge back and thrill
With a passion for something not their own—
In a life their life has never known.
For raven hair and eyes like the sun
Are merry but dour to look upon.
She smiled through her lashes under the wave,
And my soul went forth her bartered slave.
I swore, "By St. Louis, I'll come to thee,