IV
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?