The orange blossoms in the Alcazar,
Where roses and syringas are in flower;
The blinding glory of the morning hour;
The eyes that gleam behind a twisted bar;
The women on the balconies,--a smile;
The barrel-organs, and the blazing heat;
The awning hanging high across the street;
A dark mantilla in a sombre aisle.
A fountain tinkling in a shady court;
The gold arena of the bull-ring’s feast;
The coloured crowd acclaiming perilous sport;
The sudden silence when they hold their breath,
While the _torero_ gently plays with death,
And flicks the horns of the tremendous beast.