In the mornings—Oh, the tropical mornings
When the bells are all so dizzily calling one to prayer!—
All my thought was to watch from a nook in my window
Indian girls from the river with flowers in their hair.
Some bore
Fresh eggs in wicker boxes
For the grocery store;
Others, baskets of fruit; and some,
The skins of mountain cats and foxes
Caught in traps at home.
They all passed so stately by, they all walked so gracefully,
Balancing their bodies on lithe unstable hips,
As if music moved them that swelled in their bosoms
And was pizzicatti at their finger-tips.
II Tropical Rain
The rain, in Nicaragua, it is a witch they say;
She puts the world into her bag and blows the skies away;
And so, in every home, the little children gather,
Run up like little animals and kneel beside the Mother,
So frightened by the thunder that they can hardly pray.
"Sweet Jesu, you that stilled the storm in Galilee,
Pity the homeless now, and the travelers by sea;
Pity the little birds that have no nest, that are forlorn;
Pity the butterfly, pity the honey bee;
Pity the roses that are so helpless, and the unsheltered corn,
And pity me…."
Then, when the rain is over and the children's prayer is said,
Oh, joy of swaying palm-trees with the rainbows overhead,
And the streets swollen like rivers, and the wet earth's smell,
And all the ants with sudden wings filling the heart with wonder,
And, afar, the tempest vanishing with a stifled thunder
In a glare of lurid radiance from the gaping mouth of hell!
III Tropical Park
The park in Leon is but a garden
Where grass and roses grow together;
It has no ordinance, it has no warden
Except the weather.
The paths are made of sand so fine
That they are always smooth and neat;
Sunlight and moonlight make them shine,
And so one's feet