And with her arching hand of snow her anxious eyes she shades,
Searching the long and dusty road that to Ocaña leads,
For the flash of knightly armor and the tramp of hurrying steeds.
The glow of amorous hope has lit her cheek with rosy red,
Yet wrinkles of too anxious love her beauteous brow o'er-spread;
For she looks to see if up the road there rides a warrior tall--
The haughty Bencerraje, whom she loves the best of all.
At every looming figure that blots the vega bright,
She starts and peers with changing face, and strains her eager sight;
For every burly form she sees upon the distant street