In Barcelona's summer night
A Spanish guitar's slow strumming
Went floating on the lazy air,
By many a sweet street coming--
Here snatching scent of tapas dough,
A woman's easeful laughter there--
Assailing me with such cruel yearning
I halted on an ancient stair
Beneath a consecrated arch
That cupped the moon in curving blue,
All trembling in my sight, and dim,

For songs that should not end, but do.


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