My soul tremulous and forlorn
At nightfall will grow lonely:
There's a show, let us go see
The Spanish dancer perform.

It is well they've taken down
The flag that stood at the door;
For I had vowed that no more
Would I go where it was flown.

The Spanish dancer enters then,
Looking so proud and so pale:
'From Galicia does she hail?'
No, they are wrong: she's from heaven.

She wears the matador's tricorne
And also his crimson cape:
A gilliflower to drape
And with a great hat adorn!

On passing her eyebrows show,
Eyebrows of a traitorous Moor:
And the Moor's proud look she wore:
And her ear was white as snow.

The lights are dimmed, the music flares,
In shawl and gown makes her entrance
The Holy Virgin's own semblance
Dancing to Andalucian airs.

Her head raised in challenge, she
The cape o'er her shoulders spreads:
With her arched arms framing her head,
She taps her foot ardently.

Her studied taps tear the batten
As if each heel were a blade
And the stage had been inlaid
With the broken hearts of men.

The festive feeling is burning
In the fire of her eyes,
The red-speckled shawl now flies
In the air as she is turning.

With a sudden leap, she glides down,
Whirls round, falls back, and then darts:
Wide her cashmere shawl she parts
To offer us her white gown.

All her body yields and sways;
Her open mouth is enticing;
A rose is her mouth: while dancing
She's tapping her heels always.

Then turns she feebly to wind
The long and red-speckled shawl:
And shutting her eyes to all,
In a sigh leaves all behind...

The Spanish dancer has done well;
Red and white was her long shawl;
The tremulous, lonely soul
Withdraws again to its cell!