Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MY CASTLES IN SPAIN, by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL Poet's Biography First Line: Ho, joyous friend with beard of brown! Last Line: In andalouse or aragon. Subject(s): Art & Artists; Spain; Writing & Writers | ||||||||
Ho, joyous friend with beard of brown! A half-hour back 't was gray; A half-hour back you wore a frown, But now the world looks gay. For here the mirror's courtly grace Cheats you with a youthful face, And here the poet clock of time Each happy minute counts in rhyme; And here the roses never die, And "Yes" is here Love's sole reply. Gladder land can no man gain Than my mystic realm of Spain. Come with me, for I am one Hidalgo-born of Aragon; I will show you why I choose Thus to live in Andalouse. Across the terrace, up the stair, Our steps shall wander to and fro Where pensive stand the statues fair, And murmur songs of long ago. Or will you see my pictures old, The landscapes hang for my delight In window-frames of fretted gold, Where, glowing, shines in color bright That Claude of mine at full of noon, When the ripe, eager blood of June Stirs bird and leaf, and everywhere The world is one gay love-affair? Or shall we linger, looking west, Just when my Turner's at its best, To watch the cold stars, one by one, Crawl to the embers of the sun, Whilst all the gray sierra snows Are ruddy with the twilight rose? Believe me, artists there are none Like those of mine in Aragon; Nor painter would I care to choose Beside the sun of Andalouse. Or shall we part the shining leaves Down drooping from the vine-clad eaves, And see, amidst the sombre pines, The maiden take a shameless kiss? Around his neck her white arm twines, And still is sweet their changeless bliss. I know she cannot aught refuse, For that's the law in Andalouse, And ever 'neath this happy sun There is no sin in Aragon. Or shall we cast yon casement wide, And see the knights before us ride, The charging Cid, the Moors that flee? Grim although the battles be That through my window-frames I see, No death is there, nor any pain, Because on my estates in Spain All passions gaily run their course, But lack the shadow-fiend remorse. Something 't is to make one vain Thus to be grandee of Spain; For the wine of Andalouse All the world a man might lose, Could he see what rosy shapes Trample out my Spanish grapes, Know how pink the feet that bruise My gold-green grapes of Andalouse. Ah, but if you 're not a don, Drink no wine of Aragon. Dreamland loves and elfin flavors, Gay romances, fairy favors, Moonlit mists and glad confusions, Youth's brief mystery of delusions, Racing, chasing, haunt the brain Of him who drinks this wine of Spain. Where the quarterings were won That make of me a Spanish don No one asks in Aragon. Never blood of Bourbon grew So magnificently blue; Blood have I that once was Dante's; Kinsman am I of Cervantes. Come and see what nobles fine Make my proud ancestral line: In my gallery set apart, Lo where art interprets art. Yes, you needs must like it well, Shakespeare's face by Raphael. Ah, 't is very nobly done, But that's the air of Aragon. He left me that which till life ends Is surely mine,the best of friends; And chiefly one, if you would know, I love of all, Mercutio. Velasquez? Ay, he knew a man, And well he drew my Puritan, With eyes too full of heaven's light To dream our day as aught but night. If my soul stirs swift at wrong, This sire made that instinct strong. Da Vinci touched with love the face That keeps for me young Surrey's grace. And that,ah, that is one to like, My kinsman Sidney, by Vandyke. Some words he gave, of which bereft My life were poorer. There, to left Are they whose rills of English song Unto my royal blood belong. For poet, painter, priest, and lay Went to make my Spanish clay; And here away in Andalouse, Whatever mood my soul may choose, The poet's joy, the soldier's force, Finds for me its parent source Where, along the pictured wall, Hero voices on me call, With the falling of the dews, In Aragon or Andalouse, When the mystic shadows troop, When my fairy flowers droop, And the joyous day is done In Andalouse or Aragon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CELL, SELECTION by LYN HEJINIAN OXOTA: A SHORT RUSSIAN NOVEL: CHAPTER 126: THE DOUBTING MAN by LYN HEJINIAN WAKING THE MORNING DREAMLESS AFTER LONG SLEEP by JANE HIRSHFIELD COMPULSIVE QUALIFICATIONS by RICHARD HOWARD DEUTSCH DURCH FREUD by RANDALL JARRELL LET THEM ALONE by ROBINSON JEFFERS ON BUILDING WITH STONE by ROBINSON JEFFERS A DECANTER OF MADEIRA, AGED 86, TO GEORGE BANCROFT, AGED 86 by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN [MARCH 8, 1862] by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL |
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