rich tones of that solitary voice vibrate in our memory, almost as on that perfumed sea, under the light of summer stars:—
Sera,
Para mi er mayo delirio
Berte y no poerte habla.
Gacho,
Gacho que no hab ya motas
Es un barco sin timon.
Por ti.
Las horitas e la noche
Me las paso sin dormi.
Sereno,
No de oste la boz tan arta
Que quieo donni y no pueo.
Marina,
Con que te lavas la cara
Que la tienes tan dibina?
Why he told me his story I know not: I know only that our hearts understood each other.
*
* *
"Of my mother," he said, "I knew little when a child; I only remember her in memories vague as dreams, and perhaps in dreams also. For there are years of our childhood so mingled with dreams that we cannot discern through memory the shadow from the substance. But
