“O which were best, to roam or rest?
The land’s lap or the water’s breast?
To sleep on yellow millet sheaves,
Or swim in lucid shadows, just
Eluding water-lily leaves.
An inch from Death’s black fingers, thrust
To lock you, whom release he must;
Which life were best on summer eves?”
To which the lady answers:
“Dip your arm o’er the boat-side, elbow deep,