Senorita, by Madison Cawein

  An agate-black, your roguish eyes
  Claim no proud lineage of the skies,
  No starry blue; but of good earth
  The reckless witchery and mirth.

  Looped in your raven hair's repose,
  A hot aroma, one red rose
  Dies; envious of that loveliness,
  By being near which its is less.

  Twin sea shells, hung with pearls, your ears,
  Whose slender rosiness appears
  Part of the pearls; whose pallid fire
  Binds the attention these inspire.

  One slim hand crumples up the lace
  About your bosom's swelling grace;
  A ruby at your samite throat
  Lends the required color note.

  The moon bears through the violet night
  A pearly urn of chaliced light;
  And from your dark-railed balcony
  You stoop and wave your fan at me.

  O'er orange orchards and the rose
  Vague, odorous lips the south wind blows,
  Peopling the night with whispers of
  Romance and palely passionate love.

  The heaven of your balcony
  Smiles down two stars, that say to me
  More peril than Angelica
  Wrought with her beauty in Cathay.

  Oh, stoop to me! and, speaking, reach
  My soul like song that learned sweet speech
  From some dim instrument—who knows?—
  Or flower, a dulcimer or rose.