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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.
Yet I still murmur helplessly,
Senorita mia.
Come, fairy dress, enrich my verse,
Black, graceful; black, a woman's hue,
Her sanctum. Through the flowery shade
Of gauze the soft skin sunlight made;
Last gleamed a locket of pale blue,
Senorita mia.
The neck held lovingly by lace
Bends with a winning curve; two white
And slender-wristed hands entwine;
Thence to the floor the noble line
Of black betrays the perfect height,
Senorita mia.
Pure lack of wit it is to love
Such rapt, unconscious, graceful sprites,
All quivering with social fire.
Love is unsatisfied desire,
Unsocial, sad in its delights,
Senorita mia.
But since the folly holds me fast,
I hide it quickly from her sight,
Or state it calmly; it may be
Its sadness may strike pleasantly
Across ambrosial delight,
Senorita mia.
G.
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