
My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
	And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
	And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
	As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams --
	And I wish he were in Asia.
		-- Dorothy Parker, part 2
