Classic Poem

Black

As though it were a very breath that blows
From Madrilenian shadows, in its play
And nightly flutter, the mantilla shows
The street-girl duchesses of Goya's day.
In the light carts by Manzanares' tide
The black mantilla held its gallant reign;
In Holy Week Sevilla caught its pride
Amid her patios and her orange train.

To the blue-shadowed eyes of maids distressed
As their own heart-songs, its soft folds brought rest
In the infuriate passion of their love;
Under its midnight was a lurid glow
Upon the breast — a ruddy brooch to show
Like a red rose, a gloomy heart above.

White

Silken mantilla, in whose snowy woof
Lurk the dark lashes, with their Moorish spell,
Of eyes whose midnight gives a deeper proof
When the bull's bloodstains on the plaza tell.
Tangle of pearl and moonlight, blossoming
Of snow and swan and silver sails that shine, —
White flowers of Holy Thursday in a ring
About the Seven-Dolored Virgin's shrine!

Blossom of gallantry, snow-tipped mantilla,
With graceful ripples of the seguidilla,
Blason of Goya's festivals of old,
Song, clear and joyous as the vanished strains
That shower from silver orange groves like rains
Upon our beauties with the flesh of gold!