For the woman who made of love a trade
And discovered true love too late
Has paid at last for the sins of her past
With Dougal MacNeer as her mate.
Her hair, that was gold, is streaked now with cold
White tendrils, but still she sighs
And she waits and she prays, through long, endless days,
For the light to return to his eyes.
For—Man in his lust for raw gold may thrust
From planet to asteroid,