Chapter II: The Dream of Spain

Tad’ma’s Italian Spring!—the languor, light,
That bathes in lucent waves that marbled sweep
Veined rich as are those women there who keep,
Idling by day, flower-crowned, a dream of night!
Frail, blossom-hung, a pink Spring tree to right,
Where silent, saffron-robed, one watch does keep
O’er waters deep as are his own thoughts deep,
Scorning near joys for fancy’s fond delight.

O! never yet saw sun a sea so blue,
So Tyrian-toned, so violet-rich in hue!
There he who watches sees—(or is’t a dream,
Or where sunbeams, glancing, on billows gleam?)
Haze-crested hills, a gold and magic main,
And whispers softly as now I: “Spain! Spain!”