O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet.
How could passion run so deep Had I never thought That the crime of being born Blackens all our lot?
Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.
It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is
When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.
Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on.
How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?