When Frigates from Long Voyages ...
WHEN frigates from long voyages
Drift into harbour, then I see
Whirled momentary mirages
Of inspissated greenery—
Mazed mangroves casting their aerial roots,
And diamond water-shoots
Embroidering the air.
And in the drowsy hanging-gardens there
Roam slowly-swaying elephants;
The fulgurant phœnix with her sycophants,
Those trailing-plumèd birds of paradise,
Sits on a cactus thorn.
And gleaming in the ruby-veinèd morn
Lie pools of liquid amber for the indolent crocodile
To flounder in and dolorously smile.
Spick diving gannets, speckled pelicans,
Flutter with feather-footed ptarmigans.
Orange-liveried marmosets
Climb slender cypress minarets.
Strange garrisons
Of emerald-mailed chameleons,
And peacocks, fans outspread as gonfalons,
Shrill-voiced as amazons;
Coiled dinosaurs that lap the hydromel
From many a mauve-lipped shell....
The unicorns are neighing from afar,
Where hills of cinnabar
Loom high
Like venomous Borgia-philtres on the sky.
Capriccio Espagnol
“Y entre puente y otro puente
Zaragoza es my tierra.”
OF blood blown-dry brown velvet, baldaquins,
Words guttural—then soft as dulcimers:
Of rays of rapid light through fishes’ fins
Prisoned in tanks profound where nothing stirs;
Of nights that ooze weird sounds, and starry eyes
On lattice fixed and bulging balconies:—
Of these my brain built castles rapidly,
And tolled metallic like a beaten bell
Of hard green copper; straggling aimlessly
Over ravine and granite citadel
Were cities unpremeditated, dry,
As draughts of space inhaled from scorching sky.
Through these Cathedrals rose like cachalots
Twisted of height and gloom and sudden glow.
Their glossy floors reflect the crimson clots
Of vestment swirling, swishing to and fro—
And when the beadle taps his ponderous mace
Faint echoes rustle from the Altar’s lace.
Within the town: feeble electric light
Among the dusty foliage of the trees,
Like gentle cheeks against the steely night,
With boughs of thick smooth silver; jubilees
Of saints are frequent—in their thoughtfulness
The citizens will give their saint a dress.
They lift her from the gilded canopy,
Studded in far Peru, on which she stands,
Sumptuous, realistic, in each eye
A gaping jewel; sprouting from her hands
Are paper flowers—in their thoughtfulness
They give their saint a new magenta dress.
The ceremony done, and people doff
Their piety: serrated streets resound
With gossip, vacuous laughter, idle scoff.
Like strips of tape the scattered crowds confound,
Mantillas and a rout of dusky hair,
Stray thoughts jerk off and clatter in the air....