Across New England snows <br />Flash visions from afar, <br />Lithe gipsies on their toes <br />Dancing to gay guitar; <br />With gesture fierce, bizarre, <br />They lilt some old refrain <br />In whose wild measures are <br />The witcheries of Spain. <br />The stinging north wind blows, <br />But with a ruddy jar <br />Poised on her proud head goes <br />A maiden like a star <br />While, biting his cigar, <br />Her lover, scorned again, <br />Loads on his ass-drawn car <br />The oranges of Spain. <br />As keen as cameos <br />Against yon gray cloud-bar <br />Shine out a tower of rose, <br />A spire like flaming spar, <br />Gold shrines whose candles char <br />The world to ashes, train <br />Of pilgrims, globular <br />Pomegranates flushed with Spain. <br />What freak of calendar, <br />What frostwork on the pane, <br />What angry sleet can mar <br />My picture-book of Spain?<br /><br />Katharine Lee Bates<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spain-4/
