Classic Poem

I am like all who from my country hail—
Of Moorish blood, close ancients of the sun,—
Who have gained all and losing all have failed.
Firm is the soul we Arab-Spaniards won.

My longings died one night beneath the moon
Wherein I learned neither to dream or love;
My one ideal, disillusioned swoon;—
And now and then a woman's kiss to prove.

Within my soul, a sister of the night,
There are no labyrinths; my passion's rose
Is but a simple flower, exotic, quite
Without a perfume, form, nor colored shows.

Kisses,—why not give them? Glory?—What belongs.
Their atmosphere be my full breath awake!
Let the waves drive or draw me in their thongs,—
But never force me any path to take!

Ambition!—None of that! Love I know not.
I burn not e'er for faith or gratitude.
Mine was a vague desire for art—now half-forgot.
No vice controls me, though I seek not good.

My aristocracy no man can doubt;
One gains not, one inherits blazonment;
But the devise ancestral is rubbed out
To a poor blur; the sun eclipse hath sent.

I ask you nought, nor love you, nor would hate;
Letting you pass, pray do for me the same.
Let life itself arrange my mortal fate;
As for myself, I shall not take the blame.

My longings died one night beneath the moon
Wherein I learned neither to dream or love.
From time to time a kiss—a simple boon
Of generous lips—that seek no more to prove!