And yet, I'd go if Mona Lisa'd come.
We two, close-seated in one crimson boat
Would drift the yellow waters of Romance,
Glide down its stream through hills of mystery
Where Beauty roams, of which the song hath
sung,
Nor ever speak of where that tide should end.
We'd dip no oars, we'd set no hurrying sail,
But swept on the full current of desire
Would steer our course with unimpeded hands,