XLVII
Couleur tabac d’Espagne—your eyes are, Love,
Clearly and sweetly brown, with sun shone through
At mid-day when of merry mood are you—
Mirth’s mirrors, such as brooklets to the dove.
Couleur topaz d’Espagne—my tawny Love—
Topazes filled with diamond’s eyes of you
When shadows lengthen and soft falls the dew—
Dusk’s jewelled passion—Oh! my tawny Love!
But when midnight her magic does distil,
Then fathomless, a black abyss, your eyes
Where death, destruction lurk, and whence arise
Sweet danger calls that swift my pulses thrill.
Yes, yes, ’tis Fate that’s king and ruleth all;
Lo! I am one to whom the deeps do call.