Is it not enough that you bend and you break, And make you a path wherever you go, But you must enter this quiet old lane, Shut out from the world by lattice of vines, Where Eve, pretty Eve, so prim and demure Is walking with someone, taking the air? You rest behind them plotting new mischief, Rest till a soft hush falls down on the world, Rest till the growing things listen and laugh Thinking you gone to your lair in the North, Then you begin to stir and to mutter, Growing in anger, till, big with your wrath, On you come rushing--vandal how can you Liberties take with a maiden so fair?
Eve, as you walk so primly beside him, Keeping your distance, nor heeding his sighs. Chin tilted forward, eyes straight before you, Parasol swinging in one little hand, Blue gown all flounces, ribbons a-flutter, Dainty, and winsome, and proud as a queen!
There is no time--the boorish thing takes you-- You and your ruffles, your ribbons and curls, You and your primness, your blushes, and airs, Straight to the arms of the man at your side. You have no conscience swaggering north wind, Else would you hasten and leave them alone; Why must you push her yet nearer to him? Buffet and beat her--you ruffian strong! She has to hide her face on his bosom, While you go whirling in ecstasy round, Then you loosen her bronze hair and fling it, Warm and electric, up over his cheek, Hair soft and shiny, full of allurement, Tempting a mortal to feel of its gold.
Down you go soberly over the fields, Making believe you have left them for good, Driving the cattle and scaring the flocks, Shaking the cedars that stand on the hill; Then, when she loosens herself from his grasp, Laughing and blushing, and red as a rose, Back you come flying on mischief intent Pleased to torment the fair maid in the lane.
Oh, how you buffet her, boor that you are! Oh, how you flutter her garments abroad! Clutch at her flounces, so pretty and neat! Worry the ribbons that hang at her waist! Then growing fiercer, you roar and you rage, Whirling and twirling to show off your strength, Pay no attention to prayer--or mishap-- Drive her to shelter again in his arms. Watching so closely the glances she gives, Wondering greatly how much she regrets, All that has happened, since, prim and demure, Out from the farmhouse she started at noon. “Maidens are queer things,” you laugh to yourself, “Hiding their faces and owning to naught; Why must she whimper?