I have roused a woman’s wrath.

There is not so much to pardon,—

For why were your lips so red?

The blonde hair fell in a shower of gold

From the proud, provoking head.

And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes

And played round the tender mouth,

Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet wind

That blows from the fragrant South.

And where after all is the harm done?