Last night—shall I forget it ere I die?
I lay within a chamber curtained in
With red rich hangings such as Arabs spin,
Sombre of depth, tragic, where shadows lie.
You reached your lute and played a song keyed high
Upon soft undercurrents, trilled and thin,
Weaving an old love-song of Spain’s therein,
Sprayed fine as waters are when winds are nigh.
And then you played no more again that night.
Nor of song’s silver stream did I care more.
I looked into your eyes. There black and bright
An ocean did unroll _sans_ sound, depth, shore—
Across it sped as once of old the dove,
The golden, glittering, galleons of love!