IN softer sound than Saxon speech,

Though in a language strange to me,

I seek a name, enough unknown

To have a meaning all my own,

And call her slowly, tenderly,

Senorita mia.

Not of New England is the charm,

Yet found within her closest shrine.

With English words I call her dear,

"My darling;" but I stammer here,

Worship to softness half divine,

Senorita mia.

The sweetest songs of English make

From ancient years of courtesy

And more, unwritten, new as spring,

Are in her presence hovering.