A couple of centaurs clopping
Over the grass,
Shakes my world like an earthquake
When I behold her, the Indian lass;
She is working in the fields
Under the ardent sun,
Her face is in a veil
And nigh her feet rabbits run;
For a bud that wants to be a flower
In sweat, her beauty is steeped,
Like wheat, she is gold-tanned
Ready to get reaped;
Beauty isn't slave to the riches
Is now peacefully proved,
When her lips, O' the sweet lips,
Murmured an ode to her beloved.