O mellow month and merry month,
Let me make love to you,
And follow you around the world
As knights their ladies do.
I thought your sisters beautiful,
Both May and April, too,
But April she had rainy eyes,
And May had eyes of blue.
And June—I liked the singing
Of her lips, and liked her smile—
But all her songs were promises
Of something, after while;
And July's face—the lights and shade
That may not long beguile,
With alternations o'er the wheat
The dreamer at the stile.
But you!—ah, you are tropical,
Your beauty is so rare:
Your eyes are clearer, deeper eyes
Than any, anywhere;
Mysterious, imperious,
Deliriously fair,
O listless Andalusian maid,
With bangles in your hair!