For me no winter twilight falls But brings a dream of gold, Since well I know their dear white walls Are gleaming as of old; I know that down arcaded square And narrow street they still are there Dolores, Pilar, Mercedes, Reclining in the balconies. Mercedes, who belies the name Of her sweet patroness renowned As Queen of Mercies, shrined in flame, At Barcelona crowned; And Pilar, little face of rose, Whose Virgin on the pillar glows At Saragossa; there they rest, Their dark eyes golden with the west. Though the seven swords of silver press, In high Granada's shrine Her velvet-mantled patroness Of Mother-Grief divine, Dolores only smiles to scan The sunset on her spangled fan, Whose sparkle lights again the grace That memory treasures of her face. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EVERYBODY KNOWS by DAVID IGNATOW ON A TUFT OF GRASS by EMMA LAZARUS |