Upon our first great love-night, Heart of Mine,
You whispered in that golden speech of Spain,
“My home was Malaga beside the Main.”
’Twas there, I asked, where black the bunched grapes shine?
O sweet, sweet South, I cried, sweet South of thine!
A silence fell. We spoke no more again.
Within your eyes I saw an olden pain;
O sad, sad South, I thought, sad South of thine!
Upon my breast bunched black your bright curls lay—
Bacchante then and Pan were we that night;
Grape-God, I call you witness to the sight;
That night, Grape-God, beneath your mighty sway
Lay not upon my breast in love’s sweet pain
Black grapes from Malaga beside the Main?
V
You said: “To make more sweet that which will be,
Let’s play a part together, you and I.
See!—I’m a monk, who, in his garden high,
Doth fast and pray to banish things worldly.
Down there you come, sad faced, dreaming of me.
I feel that you ’twixt flowering trees draw nigh;
I look not lest your lips let love flame high,
But, rising,—_thus_—I bless you prayerfully.”
Señor!—that tone!—Those gestures strange yet stern!
Tell me, where did you learn them? Tell me true!
Great God, Señor, an unfrocked priest are you!
No, no! No, no!—Enough, your kisses burn—
To-night—I swear it!—you shall be denied,
Grief-stricken glooms o’er us—_The Crucified_.