In the Wood
Lone shadows move,
The night air stirs;
This hour of dying
Dreams was hers.
In this dusk place
Her throat gleamed white
In glimmering beauty
Of starlight.
Nightingales sang
Exultant bliss;
The snared stars saw us
Sway, and kiss.
Now the bats whirr,
The barn owls hoot,
Her loveliness
Is dust, is mute.
Peace comes not here,
No dream-bird trills:
They haunt her lodging
In the hills.
Siesta
Bring me some oranges on blue china,
With a jade-and-silver spoon,
And drowse on your silken mats beside me
In the burning noon.
Bring me red wine in cups of crystal,
With melons on chrysoprase,
And place them softly with jewelled fingers
Before my gaze.
Hasten, my dove of scented whisperings,
My lily, my Xacán!
Bring bubbling pipes for the cool shadows,
And my peacock fan.
And bid Isárrib, my chief musician,
Weave quiet songs within,
That my soul in the circles of a great glamour
May float and spin.
And O, you gaudy and whistling parrots
In your high, flowered maze,
Still your harsh, petulant quarrelling
With the mocking jays.