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Across José’s unending drone (Some ancient tale of arms and doom) There came a poignant sweetness blown From sleeping leagues of orange bloom.

And lo! the steady candles blurred Like shining fishes in a net, And José’s kindly voice I heard-- “But little one, thine eyes are wet.”

He vowed the tale had made me weep, Its shadowy woes in courtly speech, Nor knew they passed like wraiths of sleep The heart a vagrant wind could reach.

How can I tell, whose fancy floats As swift and passionate impulse veers, What gust may sweep its roseleaf boats Adown a sudden tide of tears?