Who lured men’s souls to the shores of sin with the light of her wanton eyes,
Who sang the song that the Siren sung on the treacherous Lurley height,
Whose face was as fair as a summer day, and whose heart was as black as night.
Yet a blossom I fain would pluck to-day from the garden above her dust;
Not the languorous lily of soulless sin nor the blood-red rose of lust;
But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green spot
In the arid desert of Phryne’s life, where all was parched and hot.
* * * * *
In the summer, when the meadows were aglow with blue and red,
Joe, the ostler of the Magpie, and fair Annie Smith were wed.