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ANDALUSIA
I
ALCAZAR
There was a rhapsody in all her moods,
A child-like grace, a passion unrestrained;
Her throne, which bard and saki shared, was stained
With virgin wine as with the blood of feuds;
And in her lyric-woven interludes,
Epitomizing destiny and time,
Her spirit, hid in opalescent rhyme,
The shades of Melancholy still eludes.
Where'er she trod, the rose and bulbul meet;
Where'er she revelled, gardens ever blow;
Where'er she danced, the henna of her feet
Yet lends a lustre to the poppy's glow;—
Arabia, dark-eyed, light-hearted, fair,
Is but a flower in Andalusia's hair.
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