If ever you've dreamed of a golden day when nothing at at all went wrong,
Or a pal who'd want no tellings but would somehow just belong,
Or a place that said, "I was made for you"—well, sailor-men tell you flat,
You catch your santamingo and you'll find it all like that.
* * * * *
I've sailed from the Mahanadi to north of the Nicobar,
But I can't find Evening Island where the santamingoes are,
Though I've taken salt to put on their tails and all that a hunter should—
Perhaps you can't really catch them; but don't you wish you could?
H.B.