The stars of midnight sifted Above her sands of gold; She seemed a slumbering statue, So fair and white and cold. Fair and white and cold she lay Beneath the starry skies; Rosy was her waking Beneath the Ritter's eyes. He won her drowsy fancy, He bore her to his towers, And swift with love and laughter Flew morning's purpled hours. But when the thickening sunbeams Had drunk the gleaming dew, A misty cloud of sorrow Swept o'er her eyes' deep blue. She hung upon the Ritter's neck, S he wept with love and pain, She showered her sweet, warm kisses Like fragrant summer rain. "I am no Christian soul," she sobbed, As in his arms she lay; "I'm half the day a woman, A serpent half the day. "And when from yonder bell-tower Rings out the noonday chime, Farewell! farewell forever, Sir Ernst of Edelsheim!" "Ah! not farewell forever!" The Ritter wildly cried, "I will be saved or lost with thee, My lovely Wili-Bride!" Loud from the lordly bell-tower Rang out the noon of day, And from the bower of roses A serpent slid away. But when the mid-watch moonlight Was shimmering through the grove, He clasped his bride thrice dowered With beauty and with love. The happiest of all lovers Was Ernst of Edelsheim-- His true love was a serpent Only half the time! My Castle in Spain There was never a castle seen So fair as mine in Spain: It stands embowered in green, Crowning the gentle slope Of a hill by the Xenil's shore, And at eve its shade flaunts o'er The storied Vega plain, And its towers are hid in the mists of Hope; And I toil through years of pain Its glimmering gates to gain. In visions wild and sweet Sometimes its courts I greet: Sometimes in joy its shining halls I tread with favored feet; But never my eyes in the light of day Were blest with its ivied walls, Where the marble white and the granite gray Turn gold alike when the sunbeams play, When the soft day dimly falls. I know in its dusky rooms Are treasures rich and rare; The spoil of Eastern looms, And whatever of bright and fair Painters divine have caught and won From the vault of Italy's air: White gods in Phidian stone People the haunted glooms; And the song of immortal singers Like a fragrant memory lingers, I know, in the echoing rooms. But nothing of these, my soul! Nor castle, nor treasures, nor skies, Nor the waves of the river that roll With a cadence faint and sweet In peace by its marble feet-- Nothing of these is the goal For which my whole heart sighs. 'Tis the pearl gives worth to the shell-- The pearl I would die to gain; For there does my lady dwell, My love that I love so well-- The Queen whose gracious reign Makes glad my Castle in Spain.