And still among the wild shy forest folk The birds are singing of her, and her name Lives in that language that her people spoke Before the Spaniard came.
She is not dead, the daughter of the Sun,— By love and loyalty divinely stirred, She lives forever—so the legends run,— Returning as a bird.
Who but a white bird in her seaward flight Saw, borne upon the shoulders of the sea, Three tiny caravels—how small and light To hold a world in fee!
Who but the quezal, when the Spaniards came And plundered all the white imperial town, Saw in a storm of red rapacious flame The Aztec throne go down!
And when the very rivers talked of gold, The humming-bird upon her lichened nest Strange tales of wild adventure never told Hid in her tiny breast.
The mountain eagle, circling with the stars, Watched the great Admiral swiftly come and go In his light ship that set at naught the bars Wrought by a giant foe.
Dull are our years and hard to understand, We dream no more of mighty days to be, And we have lost through delving in the land The wisdom of the sea.
Yet where beyond the sea the sunset burns, And the trees talk of kings dead long ago, Malinche sings among the giant ferns— Ask of the birds—they know!