You shun me like a fawn that's seeking
Through trackless hills her mother peeking,
Ill with fear of the woods and breeze;
When pliant leaves the spring winds rustle
Or lizards through the bushes bustle
She trembles in her heart and knees.
But not I like the tiger savage
Or wild lion seek to ravage:
So come, you're ripe a man to please.
Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Ancient Fire