The tree is happy because it is scarcely sentient;
the hard rock is happier still, it feels nothing:
there is no pain as great as being alive,
Ox that I saw in my childhood, as you steamed
in the burning gold on the Nicaraguan sun,
there on the rich plantation filled with tropical
I am the singer who of late put by
The verse azulean and the chant profane,
Across whose nights a rossignol would cry
The snow-white Olympic swan,
with beak of rose-red agate,
preens his eucharistic wing,
which he opens to the sun like a fan.
Yo soy aquel que ayer no más decía
el verso azul y la canción profana,
en cuya noche un ruiseñor había
Silence of the night , a sad, nocturnal
silence--Why does my soul tremble so?
I hear the humming of my blood,
Mes de rosas. Van mis rimas
en ronda a la vasta selva
a recoger miel y aromas
en las flores entreabiertas.
Un gran vuelo de cuervos mancha el azul celeste.
Un soplo milenario trae amagos de peste.
Se asesinan los hombres en el extremo Este.
I know there are those who ask: Why does he not
sing with the same wild harmonies as before?
But they have not seen the labors of an hour