Spain has no need of you. It is I who have need of you; Standing in a walled garden Watching you pass, far in a cobalt sky Like a wedge of geese with your comrades. The reverberations of your engines Drone from horizon to horizon Filling my head and the world. There is no promise or hope, Of idle hours among the hills In the autumn among the falling leaves. Far over Madrid Specks are swirling together. Perhaps you are the deep charcoal line of smoke Swung down the sky: -- Flaming down dead . . . Something I cannot share. Spain will go on forever -- I have such a short space to live. |