At the Hacienda (Bret Harte)

Know I not whom thou mayst be      Carved upon this olive-tree,— "Manuela of La Torre,"— For around on broken walls Summer sun and spring rain falls, And in vain the low wind calls "Manuela of La Torre."

Of that song no words remain But the musical refrain,— "Manuela of La Torre." Yet at night, when winds are still, Tinkles on the distant hill A guitar, and words that thrill Tell to me the old, old story,— Old when first thy charms were sung, Old when these old walls were young, "Manuela of La Torre."