Spain

My sweet country of the Spains,

Who would part from thy fair skies,

All thy cities and thy mountains,

And thine everlasting springtime?

Thy pure air which intoxicates,

Thy days, than thy nights less fair,

Thy fields, God when he vacates

His own heaven would live there?

Time there was, thy sovereign,

Arabia, in fleeing thee,

Left upon thy queenly head

Its coronet from out the East!

Echo tells and tells once more

To thy coasts of sorcery

The ancient refrain of the Moor:

Glory, love and liberty!

Gérard de Nerval