Outside, it froze. On rocky arms

Sleeping face-upwards to the sun

Lay Spain. Her golden hair was spun

From sky to sky. Her mighty charms

Breathed soft beneath her robe of farms

And gardens: while her snowy breasts,

Sierras white, with crimson crests,

Were stained with sunset. At the Inn,

A priest, a soldier, and a poet

(Fate-summoned, though they didn’t know it)

Met there, a shining hour to win.

A song, a blessing, and a grin

Were melted in one cup of mirth,

The Eternal Triumvirs of Earth

Foresaw their golden age begin.