Joseph Andrew Galahad

YOU see it not…? This Rose of Rhone

Has something of the flow

Of light—like a liquid lacquer on the wall.

And old Madrid—I swear, it shone

More with your light, your glow,

Than that of the sun. Why do your eyelids fall?

You hear it not…? The Prado was

A sweeping meadow then:

The swing of the tunes of time was in your tone.

No dream comes to you now because

You hear my voice again—

No dream of a youth you passed at dusk alone?

Three hundred years…! you mark them not?

And yet—you loved me then,

Who now in the light of mullioned windows stand.

And it is you who have forgot

That once, O sought of men!—

When I was the king of Spain I kissed your hand.