It sings to me in sunshine,
It whispers all day long,
My heartache like an echo
Repeats the wistful song:
Only a quaint old love-lilt,
Wherein my life is hid,—
“My body is in Segovia,
But my soul is in Madrid!”

I dream, and wake, and wonder,
For dream and day are one,
Alight with vanished faces,
And days...