Days and days float by. 
On the sides of the mountains
Blue shadows shift
And sift into silence. 
Morning... 
The cock crows. 
There is that rosy glow on the mountain’s edge;
Jose in the door of his hut;
Maria’s lace bobbins
Tapping, tapping. 
Evening... 
The parrot’s shrill cry;
Pale silver green stars. 
Night... 
The ghosts of dead Joses
And dead Marias
Sitting in the moonlight. 
Peace—­
Depressing,
Interminable
Peace.

BURNING MOUNTAINS

I

A herder set fire to the grass
On the other side of the valley,
And now a beautiful Indian woman
Bends, whirls, undulates,
Tosses her gold braceleted arms into the air—­
Then sinks into her gray veil.

II

Fire, dying in smoke,
You stir behind the haze
Like a warrior
Who threatens in his sleep.

VILLA NOVA DA SERRA

The mountains are as dull and sodden
As drunkards’ faces,
And the white forgetfulness of rain
Is like a delirium. 
Along the filthy crooked streets of the little town,
Street lamps float in pools of mist—­
The eyes of children being beaten.

RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS

Like inexorable peace,
The mists march through the mountains. 
One by one the grim peaks sink into the cold arms
     of the unspoken. 
The little town with the pink and white houses
Looses its hold on the ridge of hills
And floats among cloud tops. 
A shaggy donkey, cropping grass in the sequestered church yard,
Walks, with a leisurely air,
Into a wind driven abyss.

TROPICAL WINTER

The afternoon is frozen with memories,
Radiant as ice. 
The sun sets amidst the agued trembling of the leaves,
Sinking right down through the gold air
Into the arms of the sea. 
The enameled wings of the palm trees
Keep shivering, shivering,
Beating the gold air thin....

TALK ON THE RANCH

It is cold in the circle of mountains,
A fireless hearth. 
The stars drift by like autumn leaves. 
Only the rustle—­
Then, close together,
Our talk,
For and counter,
One grating against the other,
Rubs a little fire
And we warm each other
There in the midst of the hollow clammy circle.

LES MALADIES DES PAYS CHAUDS

PRIDE OF RACE

I saw his young Anglo-Saxon form
In its white sailor clothes
Cleave through the scampering yellow Latin crowd,
As white and clean as the blade of an archangel;
And, as he reeled along, gloriously drunk,
Those little black and gold dung beetles
Seemed to be pushing and racing over his body.