XXXVII
“Mujer mas pura que la luz serena,
Mas negra que la sombra del pecado.”
How I do love your voice when thus you read
The poets of your soft and southern tongue
Whose vowels are like silver prayer-bells rung
Within the oratory of Love’s creed,
Where longing is the incense to up-speed,
And consonants are hushed like prayer among
Gray, gliding nuns, when vesper songs are sung
And they ask pardon for sins sweet indeed.
The last line! How your voice did tremble there,
Caressing lovingly each cadenced sound,
Tonal sonorousness, new, rich, soon found
To weave a magic on the waiting air!
I love you for that subtle sense of art
Where one with me forever is your heart.