IV
Upon our first great love-night, Heart of Mine,
You whispered in that golden speech of Spain,
“My home was Malaga beside the Main.”
’Twas there, I asked, where black the bunched grapes shine?
O sweet, sweet South, I cried, sweet South of thine!
A silence fell. We spoke no more again.
Within your eyes I saw an olden pain;
O sad, sad South, I thought, sad South of thine!
Upon my breast bunched black your bright curls lay—