With amethystine robes, and hair
Curled by the kisses of salt air.
They mocked me for my weary hands
Holding your light as love demands;
They sang the lure of poppied sleep,
Their lips were warm, their eyes were deep.
The flame is spent—your pale, weak face
Must seek another resting place;
Win me and hold me now who can—
The Tyrian trader was a man.