Old Spanish Song
I'm thinking of the wooing That won my maiden heart When he—he came pursuing A love unused to art. Into the drowsy river The moon transported flung Her soul that seemed to quiver With the songs my lover sung. And the stars in rapture twinkled On the slumbrous world below— You see that, old and wrinkled, I'm not forgetful—no! He still should be repeating The vows he uttered then— Alas! the years, though fleeting, Are truer yet than men! The summer moonlight glistens In the favorite trysting spot Where the river ever listens For a song it heareth not. And I, whose head is sprinkled With time's benumbing snow, I languish, old and wrinkled, But not forgetful—no! What though he elsewhere turneth To beauty strangely bold? Still in my bosom burneth The tender fire of old; And the words of love he told me And the songs he sung me then Come crowding to uphold me, And I live my youth again! For when love's feet have tinkled On the pathway women go, Though one be old and wrinkled, She's not forgetful—no!
Eugene Field’s other poems:
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