Had turned the tawny shade to warmest black

In gradual depths as shaded Taka's cheek;

With perfumed oil her fingers gave caress

And waked the hidden pictures in the grain,

The yellow sand, the dusky amber girl,

The brown perfected in the shining globe.

Earth's monotones are justified in this.

Close to her lolled small Hopa, blithe and gay

As a young cricket, teasing all the rest

With her sharp wit; often she dropped her work—

The threading of bright flowers into wreaths—

To look across the waves, and suddenly

14

She called, "A sail, a little sail," and all

Followed her pointing fingers. Far away,

Tossed like a feather, black against the sky,

Hovered a tiny craft, its unknown lines

Marked it as stranger, and the maidens all

Curiously watched its coming to the shore.

All night the little shell with ceaseless dip

 Prev. P 12/48 next