You reached your lute and played a song keyed high
Upon soft undercurrents, trilled and thin,
Weaving an old love-song of Spain’s therein,
Sprayed fine as waters are when winds are nigh.
And then you played no more again that night.
Nor of song’s silver stream did I care more.
I looked into your eyes. There black and bright
An ocean did unroll sans sound, depth, shore—
Across it sped as once of old the dove,
The golden, glittering, galleons of love!