I think to-night I could bear it all,
Even the arrow that cleft the core,
Could I wait again for your swift footfall,
And your sunny face coming in at the door. ...
Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
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