'Twas by my foolish fancy wrought.
'Twas like the omen which precedes
The earthquake when the summer reeds
Are strangely still, until the shock
The central earth shall wildly rock.
Thou dost not love me, child of Spain!
Thy heart can love no thing but gain;
The paltry dust I tread above,
To thee, is more than woman's love.
My love is vain, and life is less