Aye! Aye! our Love-Land! But those black, black birds—
Too like they are to monks who hovered where
That old Greek garden of the world was fair.
XXII
“Flutes and mandolins—a Spanish melody—nothing more. Yet it seemed as if the night were speaking, or out of the night some passional life long since melted into Nature’s mystery.”
Lafcadio Hearn
Last night—shall I forget it ere I die?
I lay within a chamber curtained in
With red rich hangings such as Arabs spin,
Sombre of depth, tragic, where shadows lie.