Senorita

An agate black, her roguish eyes Claim no proud lineage of the skies, No starry blue; but of good earth The reckless witchery and mirth.

Looped in her raven hair’s repose, A hot aroma, one red rose Droops; envious of that loveliness, Through being near which, its is less.

Twin sea-shells hung with pearls, her ears; Whose delicate rosiness appears Part of the pearls; whose pallid fire Binds the attention these inspire.

One slim hand crumples up the lace About her bosom’s swelling grace; A ruby at her samite throat Lends the required color-note.

The moon brings up the violet night An urn of pearly-chaliced light; And from the dark-railed balcony She stoops and waves her fan at me.

O’er orange blossoms and the rose Vague, odorous lips the South Wind blows, Peopling the night with whispers of Romance and palely passionate love.

And now she speaks; and seems to reach My soul like song that learned its speech From some dim instrument--who knows?-- Or flow’r, a dulcimer or rose.