— White leopard; gold angel speaks
In soft, her mildew-honey tune:
And up upon that gorgeous face,
A sunny clime of hair she blew:

Sneering lips, and men wonder why
At each moment she pounce' in wait:
Dare not the eyes that which she bore,
Those black-beetled minds oft' elate.

And peach-moon skin still catches eyes
Of mine, which cannot fend— and yet,
In all known moments when she sighs
They bathe a room in sunny rend.

And ne'er forget will I that common gleam,
— That gold-white leopard I rarely see.