  As we crossed AlcÁntara With the Tagus falling, I was ’ware there came a voice At my shoulder calling. As we climbed the steep red path— Red as smouldering ember— “You, you know this well,” it said, “Do you not remember?” Up the narrow cobbled streets Still it followed after, Whispering deeds that we had shared With a fierce low laughter. “Here you stabbed him and he fell With his sword a-clatter That was no great matter.” Through the Gate that Wamba built Still the voice pursuing Softly called, “We know it all, All that you are doing. Every stone you’re treading now You have known aforetime, You have seen these grim red walls In the stress of wartime. “You remember? Down this lane You would often swagger With your comrades of the mask, Cloak and sword and dagger. At that window high she stood, Some dear dead Dolores.... You’ve forgotten—and so soon? —There are other stories.... By the white Church of the Kings, By the proud red towers, Thronging round about me came Ghosts of long-dead hours; Ghosts of many a blazing June, Many a keen December— “Thus and thus and thus we did. Do you not remember?” Toledo, Spain. |
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