Eugene Field

Old Spanish Song

I'm thinking of the wooing
  That won my maiden heart
When he—he came pursuing
  A love unused to art.
Into the drowsy river
  The moon transported flung
Her soul that seemed to quiver
  With the songs my lover sung.
And the stars in rapture twinkled
  On the slumbrous world below—
You see that, old and wrinkled,
  I'm not forgetful—no!

He still should be repeating
  The vows he uttered then—
Alas! the years, though fleeting,
  Are truer yet than men!
The summer moonlight glistens
  In the favorite trysting spot
Where the river ever listens
  For a song it heareth not.
And I, whose head is sprinkled
  With time's benumbing snow,
I languish, old and wrinkled,
  But not forgetful—no!

What though he elsewhere turneth
  To beauty strangely bold?
Still in my bosom burneth
  The tender fire of old;
And the words of love he told me
  And the songs he sung me then
Come crowding to uphold me,
  And I live my youth again!
For when love's feet have tinkled
  On the pathway women go,
Though one be old and wrinkled,
  She's not forgetful—no!