THE blossoms range their silver tents At twilight down the tavern lane; The south wind strays to barter scents Around no rose in vain. And see, Belovéd, where the sun Still waits thy lute's soft laughter, Although the stars come one by one, And all the night flocks after. And now the mule-bells die away, Each cool posada claims a guest Who folds his beast and pack away And gladly turns to rest; While, hark! without thy mocking gate Thine ivory castanets I hear, The while thy master stealing late Hath gained the pathway near. @3Ay, ay di mí!@1 'tis mine all night To guard thy moonlit walls and weep, Till dawn's last toper up the white Alhambra reels to sleep; Then from Granada shall I haste With spurs that bleed at every thrust, Till mad at noontide in the desert's waste I swoon amid the dust! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOCTURNE IN A MINOR KEY by CONRAD AIKEN CONTRA MORTEM: THE SUN by HAYDEN CARRUTH DIVIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON BEAUTY THAT IS NEVER OLD by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SORROWING LOVE by KATHERINE MANSFIELD |