EMPIRE BUILDING
Sweet as the heather-bell on moorland height,
Blue were her eyes, her hair a clouding night.
What knew you, Hodge, of such a one as this,
Whose lips were lewd and had a ploughman's kiss?
She'll never love you, John, howe'er you smile—
A sour grimace that hides the deeper guile.
Too often you her tender heart betrayed
For her at last to listen unafraid
Of some new plan to strike her down again,
To break her heart in plotting for your gain.
Yes, as I love her, John, I you despise
And loathe you for the sorrow in her eyes.
Ah, no, we'll never like you, Hodge, your ways are crude,
Your smile is pharisaical, your manners rude.
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