Classic Poem

Under my window Dolores sings,
Polishing pots of brass,
Rose in her hair and ears with rings,
Voice of the wind in the grass.

Whine of Arabian minor strains,
Drone of a soul that thrills,
Crying of mountains that love will leap,
Princes who ride from the hills.

Down in the garden Dolores sings,
Under catalpa trees;
All of the lovers who fill her songs,
Only Dolores sees.

O lover of mine
From the south of Spain,
With kisses of wine
And lips of pain.

Thus with your pots and your candlesticks,
Sing, Dolores, at ease!
Though never a lover step out of the songs,
Under catalpa trees;
Though never a prince or a mountain man,
You can always sing to a copper pan.