THE GEOGRAPHER
There stands a tower on a hill
Between the seven seas,
But how it's called I cannot tell
Nor where it is.
There lives therein a lady there
Whose breast is never still,
But if that land is far or near
I cannot tell.
Her lips are very sweet to close,
Her hands to overbear,
But whether they are true who knows
Or where they are?
Her hair is soft to drowse you in,
Her soft hair overflows:
You need not know the way of sin,
The way it goes.
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