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