Classic Poem

This city is the child of France and Spain,
—That once lived nobly, ardent as the heat
—In which it came to birth. Alas, how fleet
The years of love and arms! There now remain,
Bleached by the sun and mouldered by the rain,
—Impassive fronts that guard some rare retreat,
—Some dim, arched salon, or some garden sweet,
Where dreams persist and the past lives again.

The braided iron of the balconies
—Is like locked hands, fastidiously set
To bar the world. But the proud mysteries
—Showed me a glamour I may not forget:
Your face, camellia-white upon the stair,
Framed in the midnight thicket of your hair.