That their lovers can’t tell, as they bend ’neath the fray,
Which are falling the fastest,—the glances, or flowers.
And then on the sands where these young people meet,
What hushing of songs and suppressing of glee,
As the waves bring in gently, and waft to their feet,
The ripe fruit of the palm that lives under the sea!
There, while, half in earnest, fair Malabar’s daughters,
Half play, dip their white, sandal’d feet in the waters,
To catch the ripe cocoas, and run back again,
As the wave washes over their small anklet bells,