Within my ears your Spanish speech made moan;
I saw nor mud, mist, gray, wet streets; there came
As in a vision, Spain of splendid name.
Your castle in Love’s Land—there, we, alone!
Gone! Gone! Here by the window now I wait
For him to whom I owe yet give not love;
Watching the bird-winged night drop from above,
Grouped church spires, like frail hands up-flung to Fate,
On windows through which answering night lights chime,
I hear the passionless, cold rain of Winter time!