“Everything was lovely, but tenderly and sadly—
to my parting gaze.”
Irving Washington, The Tales of the Alhambra
The balconied windows of the Iberian towns
make the fronts into gently breasted dames
either clothed or lodged in beauty peering
through those iron bras so delicately wrought,
adding gentle curves and bows where would be
but a plain, strict line if it were not for them
in the way in which poetry and music overthrow
the humdrum reign of common melancholy fiends.
O, what verses and what thoughts do they sow
and what select kinds do they know of how to
grow and which do they choose to pick
when the stars nudge and once again align—
high in the southern sky—only to bring about,
as they should, a voice from a singing heart?
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