sun’s gold, you can be gloomy,
covered in glacial mists and dew.
Pines at night in mountains of reverie,
pines from northern climes, you’re beautiful, too.
You move like mimes, actors, or a statue,
stretching toward the sweet caress of the sea.
Sacred pines, I will never forget you!
Pines from Naples, loved by flowers and me!
While wandering on my pilgrim’s journey,
where I can dream my dreams, I found lovely
pines on Golden Island that granted me
a heartfelt place for you, a place to be.
Loved because they’re so sad, so soft and fair,
or for their fragrance like some immense bloom,
for a certain monkish air and long hair:
their sounds, their nests of love, their sap’s perfume.
Ancient pines shaken by the wind’s presence
in epic poems and loved by the sun!
¡Oh líricos pinos del Renacimiento,
y de los jardines del suelo español!
Los brazos eolios se mueven al paso
del aire violento que forma al pasar
ruidos de pluma, ruidos de raso,
ruidos de agua y espumas de mar.
¡Oh noche en que trajo tu mano, Destino,
aquella amargura que aun hoy es dolor!
La luna argentaba lo negro de un pino,
y fui consolado por un ruiseñor.
Románticos somos . . . ¿Quién que Es, no es romántico?
Aquel que no sienta ni amor ni dolor,
aquel que no sepa de beso y de cántico,
que se ahorque de un pino: será lo mejor . . .
Yo no. Yo persisto. Pretéritas normas
confirman mi anhelo, mi ser, mi existir.
¡Yo soy el amante de ensueños y formas
que viene de lejos y va al porvenir!
[1907]
Lyric pines growing in the Renaissance
and in the soil of some Spanish garden!
Aeolian arms sway together
when a violent gust with its fury
makes silken sounds, sounds of feathers
as it passes, sounds of surf and sea.
There was that night when the hand of Fate
brought the bitter sorrows that enfold me.
The moon used silver on the pine to plate
its blackness. A nightingale consoled me.
We’re Romantics. . . . Is there anyone who Is,
who isn’t? If you’ve never met the test
of love and pain, or never sung a kiss,
hang yourself from a pine: it’s for the best . . .
Not me. The ways of yesterday assure
my longing and my being. I endure
with reveries and shapes as their lover
from far away, heading toward the future.
CANTO DE LA SANGRE
A Miguel Escalada.
Sangre de Abel. Clarín de las batallas.
Luchas fraternales; estruendos, horrores;
flotan las banderas, hieren las metrallas,
y visten la púrpura los emperadores.
Sangre del Cristo. El órgano sonoro.
La viña celeste da el celeste vino;
y en el labio sacro del cáliz de oro
las almas se abrevan del vino divino.
Sangre de los martirios. El salterio.
Hogueras, leones, palmas vencedoras;
los heraldos rojos con que del misterio
vienen precedidas las grandes auroras.
Sangre que vierte el cazador. El cuerno.
Furias escarlatas y rojos destinos
forjan en las fraguas del oscuro Infierno
las fatales armas de los asesinos.
¡Oh sangre de las vírgenes! La lira.
Encanto de abejas y de mariposas.
La estrella de Venus desde el cielo mira
el purpúreo triunfo de las reinas rosas.
Sangre que la Ley vierte.
Tambor a la sordina.
Brotan las adelfas que riega la Muerte
y el rojo cometa que anuncia la ruina.
SONG OF BLOOD
To Miguel Escalada
Blood flowing from Abel. Trumpet calls in battle.
Struggles between brothers. Commotion and horror.
Flags floating in the air. Machine guns wound, rattle.
And, dressed in purple robes, every great emperor.
Blood that’s flowing from Christ. The organ’s rich fullness.
The celestial vineyard yields the celestial mead.
And at the hallowed brim of the golden chalice,
the souls are all sipping the wine that’s now sacred.
Blood flowing from martyrs. Strings of the psaltery.
Great bonfires and lions, the palms of victory.
The bright crimson heralds that come from mystery
usher in the great dawns with endless pageantry.
Blood that the hunter spills. The horn he knows so
covered in glacial mists and dew.
Pines at night in mountains of reverie,
pines from northern climes, you’re beautiful, too.
You move like mimes, actors, or a statue,
stretching toward the sweet caress of the sea.
Sacred pines, I will never forget you!
Pines from Naples, loved by flowers and me!
While wandering on my pilgrim’s journey,
where I can dream my dreams, I found lovely
pines on Golden Island that granted me
a heartfelt place for you, a place to be.
Loved because they’re so sad, so soft and fair,
or for their fragrance like some immense bloom,
for a certain monkish air and long hair:
their sounds, their nests of love, their sap’s perfume.
Ancient pines shaken by the wind’s presence
in epic poems and loved by the sun!
¡Oh líricos pinos del Renacimiento,
y de los jardines del suelo español!
Los brazos eolios se mueven al paso
del aire violento que forma al pasar
ruidos de pluma, ruidos de raso,
ruidos de agua y espumas de mar.
¡Oh noche en que trajo tu mano, Destino,
aquella amargura que aun hoy es dolor!
La luna argentaba lo negro de un pino,
y fui consolado por un ruiseñor.
Románticos somos . . . ¿Quién que Es, no es romántico?
Aquel que no sienta ni amor ni dolor,
aquel que no sepa de beso y de cántico,
que se ahorque de un pino: será lo mejor . . .
Yo no. Yo persisto. Pretéritas normas
confirman mi anhelo, mi ser, mi existir.
¡Yo soy el amante de ensueños y formas
que viene de lejos y va al porvenir!
[1907]
Lyric pines growing in the Renaissance
and in the soil of some Spanish garden!
Aeolian arms sway together
when a violent gust with its fury
makes silken sounds, sounds of feathers
as it passes, sounds of surf and sea.
There was that night when the hand of Fate
brought the bitter sorrows that enfold me.
The moon used silver on the pine to plate
its blackness. A nightingale consoled me.
We’re Romantics. . . . Is there anyone who Is,
who isn’t? If you’ve never met the test
of love and pain, or never sung a kiss,
hang yourself from a pine: it’s for the best . . .
Not me. The ways of yesterday assure
my longing and my being. I endure
with reveries and shapes as their lover
from far away, heading toward the future.
CANTO DE LA SANGRE
A Miguel Escalada.
Sangre de Abel. Clarín de las batallas.
Luchas fraternales; estruendos, horrores;
flotan las banderas, hieren las metrallas,
y visten la púrpura los emperadores.
Sangre del Cristo. El órgano sonoro.
La viña celeste da el celeste vino;
y en el labio sacro del cáliz de oro
las almas se abrevan del vino divino.
Sangre de los martirios. El salterio.
Hogueras, leones, palmas vencedoras;
los heraldos rojos con que del misterio
vienen precedidas las grandes auroras.
Sangre que vierte el cazador. El cuerno.
Furias escarlatas y rojos destinos
forjan en las fraguas del oscuro Infierno
las fatales armas de los asesinos.
¡Oh sangre de las vírgenes! La lira.
Encanto de abejas y de mariposas.
La estrella de Venus desde el cielo mira
el purpúreo triunfo de las reinas rosas.
Sangre que la Ley vierte.
Tambor a la sordina.
Brotan las adelfas que riega la Muerte
y el rojo cometa que anuncia la ruina.
SONG OF BLOOD
To Miguel Escalada
Blood flowing from Abel. Trumpet calls in battle.
Struggles between brothers. Commotion and horror.
Flags floating in the air. Machine guns wound, rattle.
And, dressed in purple robes, every great emperor.
Blood that’s flowing from Christ. The organ’s rich fullness.
The celestial vineyard yields the celestial mead.
And at the hallowed brim of the golden chalice,
the souls are all sipping the wine that’s now sacred.
Blood flowing from martyrs. Strings of the psaltery.
Great bonfires and lions, the palms of victory.
The bright crimson heralds that come from mystery
usher in the great dawns with endless pageantry.
Blood that the hunter spills. The horn he knows so
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