Seville

The orange blossoms in the Alcazar, Where roses and syringas are in flower; The blinding glory of the morning hour; The eyes that gleam behind a twisted bar; The women on the balconies,--a smile; The barrel-organs, and the blazing heat; The awning hanging high across the street; A dark mantilla in a sombre aisle.

A fountain tinkling in a shady court; The gold arena of the bull-ring’s feast; The coloured crowd acclaiming perilous sport; The sudden silence when they hold their breath, While the torero gently plays with death, And flicks the horns of the tremendous beast.