My lover comes home tonight from far away
from fogs where sunlight glints on gray
from the thump and purl of insisting waves.

She won't still love me the voices say
the shrouded moon will have drawn her to play
with men far older and younger, who pray

sweetly in her own tongue, who pay
extravagant compliments and array
her in opals and pearls and jade.

My lover comes home tonight from far away;
She won't still love me the voices say.