Poems of South America
Walsh, Thomas
454 THE COMMONWEAL September 16, 1925 POEMS OF SOUTH AMERICA Translated by Thomas Walsh to the Fatherland "Land!" cries the sailor from the prow As faint and distant rises now The half...
...I love thee and am young—and so I hold The selfsame fragrance as the spring...
...And as the schooner ploughs along, The plains are seen to spread afar In forms fantastical, among The forms that shone so clear and strong In dreams beneath my exiled star...
...Mother, I am here...
...the wings of destiny Have swept me distant from thy side, I, who would fame and fortune make But for thy sake...
...JUANA DE IBARBOUROU...
...J. A. Perez Bonalde...
...Uruguay...
...When, few my years and few my woes, But rich in fantasies and calm, I played among the sandy flows Beneath the spreading fronds of palm— And heard the whispering of doves That sipped the light and perfume of their loves...
...0 my great and lordly master, O my jeweler supreme, Thou hast in thy sacred guerdon all of harmony in fee— 1 implore thee, keep me ever, shining in the lurid gleam Of thine Arab eyes, an image royal for the heart of thee...
...Hast twined thy locks with willow-bands...
...the Spring Like to some ebon wing, thy tresses lie Across my lap...
...The grief from out these dusty pages shows No trait of nobleness...
...Dialogue at Twilight Books are perverse—read none of them, 'tis best— From them have come my sorrows most intense...
...Roll on, O swiftest of the waves, Waters and birds and zephyrs, haste To the land my inmost spirit craves, And say I come across the waste To my repose—I crave a moment's rest Within the shadowy hearth-place of her breast...
...Closing thine eyes, thy perfumed breath Arises, asking me— "Think'st thou to sleep upon the mossy stones...
...If I only were a princess of the storied lands of Greece With my tresses sculptured marble and my cheek of snowy stone And my brows severely banded with white filleting of peace, I should tell thee with my profile, "Come, for I am thine alone...
...Say that my longing is a mad desire To reach that shore, my anguished heart Like Tantalus is martyred dire— Say that no instant, night or day, From out my breast hath she been put away— And bear the kiss I wave across the air In tribute high and fair, To speak what all my inmost soul would say...
...Draw back the curtains, so the twilight show, And turn your gaze into the night...
...And my soul has taken trouble in the fugitive array Of the color of thy glances as they twinkle in the light...
...This perfume that thou feel'st, is my firm flesh— My stainless cheeks, my youthful blood...
...And gradually from the breast Of far horizons rising there A lofty mountain lifts its crest Serene amid the upper air...
...Uruguay...
...No scent, no perfume— Only I am young and love thee—springtime is my breath...
...Mother, I am here, from out the north, To warm thee with a full and mute caress— Alas, too late, for thou no more canst know— Too late to waken thee in thy chill press, To hear the sorrow that my heart pours forth...
...Venezuela...
...Flashing Eyes Like two jewels in their casket set to glitter and display, Thy two eyes are shut and opened ceaselessly in flutter bright...
...Rene Borgia...
...What fresh and rare new fragrances enfold thee...
...cries the sailor from the prow As faint and distant rises now The half distinguished line of shore Between the mists and billows seen once more...
...And now the vision gathers there, The palm trees bordering the shore, While breezes full of perfume rare Of woodland violets and orange, store My memory of days that were So innocent and glad of yore...
...Maria Eugenia Vas Ferreira...
...See, how inhuman fates decide That I should come, poor outcast, back to thee With naught to offer in my weary hand But some poor blossom from the highroads wide— And these last sighs that in my breast expand...
...tis the cursed grief Of lust without its kisses, plotting sin— And thou art far too pure, too rayed in white To bend so low—read none of them, 'tis best— Draw back the curtains...
...454 THE COMMONWEAL September 16, 1925 POEMS OF SOUTH AMERICA Translated by Thomas Walsh to the Fatherland "Land...
...Thine odor speaks of earth and rock-bound streams— What perfumes dost thou waft?—I ask again...
...Doth clover make their pillow ? Are they black With heavy juices of the broken grape, With cloudy curdlings of the berry fields...
...Afar The poem of the evening star, of heaven In its cloudy death, holds deeper charm Than the poor drowsy poetry that sleeps Beneath its crown of tears within your book...
...Venezuela...
Vol. 2 • September 1925 • No. 19
