With your mercury mouth in the missionary Times, And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes, And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes, Oh, who among them do they think could bury you? With your pockets well protected at last, And your street-car visions which you place on the grass, And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass, Who among them do they think could carry you? Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes, My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums, Should I leave them by your gate, Or sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
