Blackwell family
Alice Stone Blackwell

subject file

Spanish American poems: translations 
by Alice S. BlackwellAN EASTER TALE
by Alice Stone Blackwell.

Mahmoud the Great on a journey went; 
His thoughts were on war and conquest bent. 
Kasajas followed him, musing too, 
But what his thoughts were, no man knew. 
The Sultan spoke: "My wise Vizior,
Marvellous things of thee I hear.
Say, is it true, as men declare, 
That thou knowest the speech of the birds of the air?"
Kasajas answered, "Sire, 'tis truth, 
A dervish taught me the art in youth. 
Whatever by birds is chirped or sung,
I comprehend like my mother tongue. 
Two screech-owls sat on a plane-tree bare; 
With notes discordant they filled the air. 
The Sultan pointed: "Tell me, pray, 
What is it those birds of evil say?"
Kasajas listened: "O sire, I fear 
To tell thee plainly the thing I hear. 
Those hideous screech-owls talk of thee".
"Verily! What can they say of me?
Tell me the truth and have no fear; 
The truth is best for a monarch's ear". 
"Thy servant, sire, obeys thy words. 
This is the talk of those evil birds:
'I am content", said the elder one, 
'Unto they daughter to wed my son, 
If twenty villages, ruined all, 
To her for her dowry portion fall.'
'Three times twenty such instead
Shall be her portion', the other said. 
'Long may Allah, the wise and good, 
Preserve the life of the great Mahmond!
Wherever he rides there will be no lack 
Of ruined villages in his track.'"
The Sultan's dreams were dark that night. 
When came the dawn of the morning light, 
He rose from a couch where he found no ease, 
And sent an embassage of peace.


Like Those Indian Craftsmen
Rafael Lozano, Jr.
Give me your fair white hands, dear; let me submerge within them 
The impulses that stir me, as in two rivers bright;
Within that silent refuge let calmness quell and quiet 
The voices of my ancestors, those warriors fierce in fight.

Let all that still revives in me out of the ancient epics,
In which keen swords and arrows beneath the bending skies,
With wondrous might went crashing and breaking, like red lightnings,
Grow shadowy in the heavenly peace which reigns in your kind eyes!

That like those Indian craftsmen who wrought in gold and silver,
Chiselling out their precious things with endless pains and cae,
Repolishing the gold- work of a dream with labor tireless,
Or as the Sevres artiste toil o'er their porcelains rare,

I o'er my Indian flute may toil, that thus, revealed to sight,
You may arise beatific, melodious, calm and bright.She might have been a joy, a magical thing. An incarnation of the heavenly spring. "A soul of love and fire!  I bring to thee, in God's and in Ximena's name," said she, This budding rose and this fresh laurel [s?]!"  The leaves of laurel waved his helmet oer, in his steel glove a budding rose he bore And honey sweetness in his soul that day1
Long life to the snail!
To the snail, in which fate
Has united [vast] vast merit
[To] With modesty great!
Architect and astronomer,
[Haply through] Learning from her,
Perchance [felt] in their minds
[The first glimmerings]
Felt the first notion stir
Of the stair winding upward, 
The telescope clear -
Long life to the snail, then,
That creature so dear!
Content with conditions
That God has assigned,
She might the Diogenes
Be of her kind.
To [take] breathe the fresh air 
She ne'er passes the door

2
But sedately & calm
She lives on evermore
Within her own shell
[Staying still] Keeping close - 'tis her nature;
Long life to the snail, then,
Domestical creature! 
An appetite flagging 
Rare dishes may tempt,
But she from the wish
For [strange] rich foods is exempt,
Content with the grass [of
her]
Of her home - 'tis her
nature.    
Long life to the snail, then,
[Most abstinent] Abstemious creature!
[Not content with their fortune] Some people, not knowing
[Some people today] When they are well off
[Are more ready the lion]
Than the donkey to play] Would fain play the lion; 
At the donkey they scoff
(over)The snail, more discreet,
Though not human her mould
Draws in her horns modestly,
Does not wax bold

The snail makes no quarrel,
Dwells close
Draws in her horns modestly,
Does not wax bold
From stillness & modesty
Ne'er will she cease;
All hail to the snail, then,
The creature of peace!

In wondrous variety
Nature's works crowd;
Above all living things
She the snail has
endowed
Ye butchers, take notice!
Unlike luckless men
If her head is cut off
She can grow it again.
A strange thing, but true -
She has this power by nature.
All hail to the snail, then;
We envy the creature! 
Dear Italy! wherever they sad cry
Has reached, by long oppression
overpowered;
Where'er hope has not yet
forsaken man;
Wherever freedom has
already flowered;
Where'er in secret it is
growing rife;
Where'er it weeps disaster
tearfully, -
There is no heart, my
mournful Mother-land!
There is no heart that
does not beat for three.
How often hast thou
watched the Alps, to see 
The standard of a friend
salute the breeze!
How often hast thou bent
thy wistful gazeUpon the desert of the
twofold seas!
Behold at last, from
thine own breast sent forth,
Gathered around thy
sacred flag today,
Armed with their griefs,
& mighty in their strength
Thy sons to battle
now have marched away.
Today, O strong ones! on
your faces flames
The fury of your
thoughts, that found
no words
You fight for Italy, O
gallant men!
Conquer! Her fortune
rests upon your swords

Either we shall behold
her risen through you,
And at the table of
the nations placed,
Or 'neath the hideous
rod she will remain,
Yet more enslaved,
more scorned &
more debased.MONOSTROFE.
Felipe Perez.
En un pliegue de un valle, entrelazadas,
Al sol que aparecia,
Vi una vez unas flores delicadas
Que el cefiro bullia.
Eran pocas y bellas. En sus hojas,
Azules y odorantes,
Titilaban mil perlas, mil diamantes...
Pense al instante en ti y vi en tu pecho
Un ramillete de esas flores hecho.
Mas, cuando fui a cogerlas,
Solo balle las espinas erizadas
De tu desden... sus perlas
No eran las blancas gotas de la aurora,
sino mis propias lagrimas, senora!

DEWY BLOSSOMS.
Felipe Perez.
In a valley's fold at sunrise
Once I saw some flowerets fair,
Blossoms delicate and lovely,
Waving in the gentle air.
They were few and they were beauteous;
On their fragrant petals blue
Myriad pearls and diamonds twinkled.
Straightway then I thought of you.
On your breast I saw a nosegay
Of those dewy blossoms fair.
Ah me! When I went to pluck them
Sharp thorns only met me there--
Thorns of your disdain! O lady,
Those clear pearls upon them shed
Were not morning's drops of brightness,
They were my own tears instead!The Mass at Dawn.
From the Spanish of Luis G.Urbina. Rendered into English verse
by Alice Stone Blackwell.
1.
Do you know it? 'Tis a story
That the mothers tell their children
On the cold, sad nights of winter,
While the wind, that vagrant, whistles
In the streets his doleful ballads,
And light hands unseen are drumming
Upon all the clouded windows.
Do you wish to hear the story?
Then into mine eyes gaze deeply,
And within your orbs of onyx
Let those sands of diamond sparkle
That within your eyes are kindled
When you wish my sight to dazzle.
O my verses, birds ungrateful!
Start again upon your journey,
For my spring once more is with me.
Now spread wide your wings of azure,
Build your nests now in my poems.

2.
Long ago, in times departed,
Long, long since, in distant ages,
That old church, to ruin falling,
Seemed to gazers at a distance
A caprice of mists and vapors
Hanging from the tall trees' branches.
From afar, the mass looked formless;
Coming nearer, clear to vision
Domes and towers displayed their outlines:
Architraves, a ruined portal,
Griffins, monsters and archangels,
And, in wondrous equilibrium
In the air, long rows of columns,
Bits of wall, like sails in tatters,
Cut the blue, transparent background.
In that glade amid the forest,
Leprous, crumbling, lo, the silent,
Gloomy church stood meditating.
In your eyes the diamonds glitter!
Do you then my tale encourage?
Let them gleam, romantic dreamer!
Long ago, in distant ages . . . .
3.
But as there exists no sadness
Without comfort, so the ruin,
Standing vast and sad and silent,
In its solitude found pleasure

2.
Every morn - can you believe it?
At the advent of the dazzling
Earliest gleam of virgin brightness
From the deep, remote horizon's
Lapis-lazuli, there issued
From the architraves and friezes
Of the lofty Gothic belfry,
From the pinions of the angels,
From the walls of chiselled stonework,
From the niches of the statutes,
Flocks of birds, in endless numbers,
Chirping, twittering and singing.
When the rising sun had kindled
Vivid, bright triumphal arches
Back behind the dim vague mountains
And the mists that veiled the landscape, -
On the broken ranks of columns,
On the bent and twisted pillars,
On the shattered spires and summits,
In the ailes and their recesses,
Gleamed and shone - made up of atoms
Restless, brilliant, scintillating - 
Thin and subtle golden gauzes,
Like light, filmy shawls in tatters.

4.
Ah, the church is not deserted!
Worshippers are still within it.
See how thickly in the transept
The loquacious swallows gather!
Of this temple, they the nuns are,
And the monks are the song-sparrows.
On the stony wreaths and garlands
Multitudes of nests are builded.
And there issue from dark openings
In the curtains of the foliage
Flowers of purple morning-glories,
Wild calendulas, red tulips,
Jacinths white as alabaster,
Blossoms of the wild field-daisy,
And, embroidering the drapery
Here and there - deep spots of crimson - 
Myrtle blossoms, rich, blood-colored.
And the velvets of the mosses,
Greenish black, of tints that vary,
Border every edge and outline
With their tapestries Arabian,
Torn by gusty winds and breezes
Into pierced rosettes and trefoils.
Ah, the church is not deserted!
Worshippers are still within it.
Here the flowers their mass are holding!3.
Do you see how lush the rose-vines

O'er the church steps, worn and rugged,
Spread the branches, climbing, climbing,
In a crowd, the pious peasants?
Early worshippers, the roses!
They are going to the temple;
It is very late already!
To the choir have come the violets,
And of each corolla, swinging,
Now they made a fragrant censer.
Pinks in legions lift their clusters;
Nettles green are now adorning
The "most holy" of the altar;
And the poppy, very careful
Of the satin of her petals,
Peeps among the sharp and prickly
Labyrinth of thorny bushes.
Yes, the flowers their mass are holding!
There is likewise a procession:
'Tis a swarm of iridescent,
Restless dragon-flies that wander!
All the herbage, green and tiny,
Bows - the birds officiating.
No, the church is not deserted;
Worshippers are still within it!
Sadness finds its consolation,
And that dark, gigantic ruin,
Full of ancient memories mournful
And of solitude unending,
Meditates: - Yes, thou, O Nature!
Art a mother, a good mother!
5.
But how sad, O ruined temple!
Thou at eventide appearest,
When the birds are hushed in slumber,
When the flowers have closed their petals,
And the sable parasitic
Plants upon the domes upgrowing
Paint themselves against the sunset,
Straight, immovable, far-branching,
Looking like the plumes funereal
Shadowing the helms of giants!
Paint and long and horizontal,
Tired and weary with its journey,
Gleaming like a golden arrow,
Comes to fasten for a moment
On the cross above the belfry
That spreads wide its arms to heaven,
One pale sunbeam, the last breathing
Of the light about to perish.
Come again, as always, Darkness,
Cold, impalpable and stealthy,
Thou the silent, thou the soundless,
Thou the traitorous, the constant!
[Come again!]

4.
Come again! The church in sadness
Meditates:  "God! How the stars gleam!
What unending light of diamonds!
Space is now a blazing chapel.
Oh, what myriad lamps in heaven!
In the air what deep transparence!
Ah, would but one star come hither,
Fix itself among my shadows!
Ah, if but its trembling brightness
Would illuminate my shadows!"

6.
On a night in chill December. . . .
How did it befall? We know not! . . .
One cold night, so cold, so frigid
That amid the radian heavens,
All the stars, bestrewn and scattered
Like a rain of orange blossoms,
Shivered - it was then a pilgrim
Came there, sad and solitary.
'Twixt acanthus leaves, deep carven
On a capital, which, fallen,
Overturned upon the herbage,
Had become a vase of foliage,
His gnarled staff he placed; then forward
Took his way, the steps ascending,
Portico and portal passing.
The birds whispered, "Who is coming?
Who is this? A saint? An image,
From its ancient niche downfallen?
No, it is a man!" The pilgrim
Passed from sight at length, and vanished
In the depths of dim, dark shadows.
Suddenly it creaked, the temple;
Fleeting flashes crossed the shadows,
As if shining flags were passing.
And a miracle was wrought there:
Rose the porch, [t] severe, triumphant;
All the walls grew whole and solid,
All the pillars rose unbroken,
Arch and arch embraced each other,
In a curve the aisles met softly;
The majestic architecture,
Slender, elegant and airy,
In a glorious ascension
Steadily kept rising,rising,
Till against the sapphire heaven
Spires and pinnacles were outlined!
No detail was lost or lacking,
Sculptured saints nore carven monarchs,
Nor the crystals of the ogive
Nor the leaves upon the garlands
Nor upon the walls the lacework5.
Nor the edges of the stonework
Nor the veining of the marbles.
E'en the rusty mechanism
Of the church clock, slowly, gravely
Now began the time to follow,
One by one the moments marking.
Now within the sculptured chancel
How much light! Is someone coming?
From afar, a row of torches
Seems the valley to inundate;
And amid the dense, deep forest,
Here and there among the tree-trunks,
Bright red flames now prick the darkness.
All things are alive and stirring;
In the air the bell is swinging:....
Come, ye restless, troubled spirits!
Come, the mass is just beginning!
And in litters and on horseback,
In great crowds, from all directions,
Come they, nobles and plebeians;
Princesses and royal princes,
Laborers and lowly peasants,
And the bishops, and the abbots.
All of them ascend the church steps,
Cross the chancel, throng the temple.
From the multitude, so earnest
To get in, a clamor rises;
They would enter, but they cannot,
For there is no space left empty.
And within - how many tapers!
Radiant, glittering constellations!
They light up the arabesque-work,
Take the altars glow like tinder,
Hang in masses yellow fringes
On the columns, the adornments
Of the aisles incrust with jewels.
All the chandeliers of silver
Flash - how many unexpected
Bursts of luminous effulgence
Blind the eye, around the transept!
See the tapestries, how vivid,
Hanging on the gilded railings!
See the ornaments, how florid!
Oh, what colors! Oh, what contrasts!
And, upon the book-rests opened,
How the church grows white with missals!
See, it stirs, the throng of people,
Moves and undulates and struggles,
Like the waters of a river


6.
Which fill up their narrow chancel,
Boiling, surging, seething madly,
Till they over-leap their borders!
All things shine and gleam and glitter:
Silk of skirts of antique fashion,
And the canopies brocaded,
Gold of necklaces that glimmer,
The dalmatics of rich crimson,
And the brooches set with brilliants,
And the velvet of dark prie-dieux
And the broidered and heraldic
Garments of the host of pages.
The procession now advances;
Slowly cross the thick wax torches;
All the censers now turn over,
And the smoke the air embroiders.
From the organ peal sonorous
Heavenly harmonies; the crowd kneels;
Pass the bishops, pass the abbots;
From the belly still the bell sounds,
Jubilant and never-tiring:
Restless ghosts, ye souls in trouble,
Come, the mass will soon be over!
Then the cock crew! Clear the dawn broke,
And the rain of orange blossoms
Disappeared amid the brightness 
Of inviolate blue heavens.
And the breeze arrived, the herald,
He that wakes the birds from slumber,
He that scatters on the herbage
Handfuls bright of glittering diamonds.
All the visionary marvel
- Graceful work of gold and silver - 
At one blow, sinks, falls, is broken,
Is effaced, is fled, is vanished,
Blotted out and brought to nothing.
On the broken rows of columns,
On the bent and twisted pillars,
On the shattered spires and needles,
In the aisles and their recesses,
Flashed and shone - made up of atoms
Restless, bright and scintillating - 
Thin and subtle golden gauzes,
Like light, filmy shawls in tatters.
10.
When the sun in heaven was tracing
His triumphal arches vivid
Back behind the darksome mountains
And the vapors of the landscape,
From the ruined church returning
Came the sad, mysterious pilgrim.
In his hand the dry and knotty
Staff he took to aid his journey,And amid the mists departed,
And was lost among the tree-trunks.
It was left alone, the ruin,
With its birds and with its blossoms. . . . 
On a night in chill December.
How did it befall? We know not!

               ll.
Tale of magic! simple story
Of the mediaeval ages!
You are like my life, the story
Of my love! Ah me, so many
Common histories are like you!
My romantic girl, look at me
Deeply; let the sands of diamond
Flash within your orbs of onyx!
Did you know it? Does it please you?
Have I told it well? Then give me
Both your hands - I fain would hold them
For a moment, just a moment!
I am glad and proud and happy
When you with your gaze applaud me.

Tell me, is it true, my lady,
That your heart is all a ruin,
That it beats and throbs no longer,
That the angels there have fallen,
And that sometimes memories chant there - 
Birds still faithful to the ruin -
And again the withered blossoms
Of your tenderness reopen
When upon your clouded memory
Shines the sun of other ages?

My love came, the wonder-worker,
Wizard strong, the good magician,
To that temple. Eve was falling,
Evening with its gloom and sorrows.
He approached it, sad and weary,
For the journey had been painful;
In the centre of the ruins
Cried he, "Let the aisles rise newly,
Let the tapers flame and glitter!
Let the shrines be decorated!
Heart, O heart, revive and pulsate!
I am he whom you awaited;
Love me!" See, in crowds arriving,
Weary and devoutly zealous,
Come the ghosts, the troubled spirits,
From their sepulchers arising:
Hopes, ambitions, dreams and longings,
The most noble and the richest,
The most beautiful, the grandest
Fancies - these are the princesses -

enter

8.
And the dreams, the youthful pages.
Fair church! to the incantation
Of my wishes, rise from ruin!
Lo, my happiness invokes thee!
Soon will day dawn - late the hour is -
And my love, the wonder-worker,
Knocks and calls, and no answers;
And he bends the knee, entreating -
And the marvel does not follow!

SIN PALABRAS

Sera como un efluvio el amor mio
que envolvera tu ser calladamente,
como niebla impalpable sobre un rio
y como el aire, azul y transparente.

Sera un halo en tu palida cabeza,
un iris en tu llanto cristalino,
y una flor de tu vida en la maleza,
y un manso atardecer en tu camino.

Como ansia a todas horas renovada,
como una herida sin cesar abierta,
como una aspiracion nunca saciada,
y como una inquietud siempre despierta...

De mezquinos afanes olvidado,
solo lleno de ti, de ti  suspenso,
en cada brena hejara un pecado
y en cada risco un desencanto inmenso;

despenara en un tajo su amargura
que hacia el abismo rodara perdida,
hundira en la caverna mas obscura
su desconsuelo enorme de la vida;

y si lagrima fue, sera rocio
sera rayo de luna si es tiniebla;
algo, como una estrella en el vacio,
algo, como una luz entre la niebla...

Y hara que mires en el corto viaje
a traves del dolo que tu alma llena
como a traves del oro de un celaje,
que la vida es muy triste, pero es buena...

Y apacible, y profundo, y silencioso,
cuando inclines, muy palida, la frente,
para dormir el sueno misterioso,
el sera, como un surco luminoso
que prolongue tu vida eternamente...Loneliness
George Mateus - Colombia
------------------------------------
All dark and sad the path has grown,
B ecause my love has passed away;
Now in a new and unknown peace
The ancient poplars rock and sway.

The dog, that haply thinks it strange
To see me at this hour alone,
Begins to look at me, and whines
Sadly, as when the dumb heart pines
For some one he has loved and known.

A nd, in the evening's glowing calm,
The outline of a distant palm
Stands out against the west; the tree
Seems like her spirit's ghostly shade,
That haply has its passing stayed
To gaze at me.AN EASTERN TALE
by Alice Stone Blackwell.

Mahmond the Great on a journey went;
His thoughts were on war and conquest bent.
Kasajas followed him, musing too,
But what his thoughts were, no man knew.
The Sultan spoke: "My wise Vizier,
Marvellous things of thee I hear.
Say, is it true, as men declare, That thou knowest the speech of the birds of the air?"
Kasajas answered, "Sire, 'tis truth,
A dervish taught me the art in youth.
Whatever by birds is chirped or sung,
I comprehend like my mother tongue."
Two screech-owls sat on a plane-tree bare;
With notes discordant they filled the air.
The Sultan pointed: "Tell me, pray,
What is it those birds of evil say?"
Kasajas listened: "O sire, I fear
To tell thee plainly the thing I hear.
Those hideous screech-owls talk of thee".
"Verily! What can they say of me?
Tell me the truth and have no fear;
The truth is best for a monarch's ear".
"Thy servant, sire, obeys thy words.
This is the talk of those evil birds:
'I am content", said the elder one,
'Unto they daughter to wed my son,
If twenty villages, ruined all, To her for her dowry portion fall.'
'Three times twenty such instead
Shall be her portion', the other said.
'Long may Allah, the wise and good,
Preserve the life of the great Mahmond!
Wherever he rides, there will be no lack
Of ruined villages in his track.'"
The Sultan's dreams were dark that night.
When came the dawn of the morning light,
He rose from a couch where he found no ease,
And sent an embassage of peace.A Unas Violetas
Enrique Fernández Granadas

Dulces violetas, como el cielo azules,
que cultiva la mano delicada
de aquella por quien lloro,
más desdeñosa cuanto más la adoro!
Si, por ventura, unidas tiernamente,
ornáis de Laura el seno o la alba frente,
decidle mis dolores
y aplacaréis ¡ oh flores!
de mi cruel adorada los enojos . . . .
Pues ella debe amaros, cuando [os] os dieron
su alma el aroma y el color sus ojos!

Does the underscored line mean
more scornful the more I adore
her; or is the idea that I adore
her more the more she scorns
me?
[*Yes, your first 
version is "OK"*]

And is the subject of dieron
su alma and sus ojos - since her soul
gave you its fragrance & her eyes their color?
[*"OK"*]Contributing Editors
Mary Johnston
Stephen S. Wise
Josephine Peabody Marks
Zona Gale
Florence Kelley
Witter Bynner

THE WOMAN'S JOURNAL 
and SUFFRAGE NEWS
585 Boylston Street, Boston, Massachusetts
Telephone: Back Bay 4717

Contributing Editors
Ben B. Lindsey
Caroline Bartlett Crane
Ellis Meredith
Mabel Craft Deering
Eliza Calvert Hall
Reginald Wright Kauffman

Assistant Editor
Henry Bailey Stevens

Editor-in-Chief
Alice Stone Blackwell

Managing Editor
Agnes E. Ryan

3 copies
Human Wolves
By R. Arevalo Martinez of Guatemala. Translated
from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell
At first I called them "Brothers," with hands outstretched
I met them;
But from their thefts among my lambs I saw
deep wrongs befall;
And then the voice of brotherhood fell mute
within my spirit;
When I drew near to look at them, wolves were
they, one and all!
What happened after in my soul that used to
walk so blindly,
My poor sad soul which dreams and loves with
tenderness today?
How came it that I saw not in their tread the wild
beasts' prowling,
Nor in their eyes the instincts of slaughter and
of prey?
Since then I too, become a wolf, have left the
true, straight pathway;
I too, a wolf, have fallen, [and rolled in] bestained with
mud and gore;
And then in every one of them again I found (over)a brother,
And I drew near to look at them, and 
all were men once more!2
Sweet birds of azure used to sing to me.
The sun went down, and then came on the night -
My long, dark night of sorrow and despair.
In its thick blackness they were lost to me,
The melodies that filled my hours of glee,
Illusions birds of azure, bright and fair.

Sun of my sky, you gladden me no more!
My heart is now a church in ruins cold -
A mournful nest of birds with plumage black,
Which the deep shadows of my grief enfold.
One mystic moon beam's faint, pale thread of light
Along disturbs the darkness with its ray.
Let not its gleam be quenched! It is to me
The only joy of my sad destiny -
A memory of youth now past away.
O Time! I leave the doors all standing wide.
Swiftly come in! If it indeed be true
That all things you destroy and sweep away,
Bear hence with you these dark-hued birds, I pray,
As you bare hence the white birds and the blue!

Urbina's poems are full of color. The
following among many others, 
exemplify this:
On the Lake
The waters with their phosphorescence blue
Mirror heavenly twilight, air and sky
Subtler and thinner and more crystalline
Under the luminous transparency.



3
In garrulous impatience, lo! the waves
Scatter in diamond dust the spray they shed,
And to a pearly rose-hue, fine and sweet,
Soften the sunset's tints of vivid red.
Celestial shades weave many colored lace,
Build castles, golden domes and flaming towers
Beneath the waves, till 'mid the melting hues
The lake appears, in sunset's magic hours,
A lovely sheet of shining moire, bestrewn
With petals of pure light from burning flowers.

Sunset
The twilight is diaphanous; it seems
A precious crystal, opening in the skies
Its shining agate; 'tis a filmy veil
In which the lake's calm azure swoons and dies.
Into faint, greenish amber in the west
The sun's rich light is fading, still and slow;
Upon the velvet shadow, far away,
One pale star trembles, like a flower of snow.
The birds are circling slowly in the air;
The shadow grows' it covers earth and sky;
The golden hues of heaven it devours,
And in its folds the purples fade and die.
I let my spirit softly fall asleep,
And I begin to dream, amid the dew.
It seems to me that sad eyes gaze at me -
Your mournful eyes of pallid emerald hue!4
The Triumph of the Blue
The glowing red of dawn points the lake to pale blood of
roses. Tranquil are the waters, where, like a thin ribbon,
the light undulates, and opens capricious crevices of
silver. And, far away, the sky against which the
mountain summits are outlined is tinged with crimson.
The purples melt into violet mists; and at last the
brightness of the red is all extinct.

The blue triumphs in splendor; it is the triumph
of the azure, woven with silver and golden lights, like imperial
brocade; it is the deep blue that bathes in pure light the
motionless headland and the circling lake; and
above, in the distance, the sail of a boat places its sweet
note of virginal white.

The Last Sunset
Topazes, amethysts and emeralds deep
Are fused in the imperial sunset's light;
And, black against the vivid hues of gold,
A royal pine stands out, upon the height.
Upon the other side comes up the moon,
A marble globe half darkened, overhead -
Where in capricious folds the mountain brows
Their dense, luxuriant tropic verdure spread.
Like some rich fabric with a border white
Of pearls and diamonds, now the sea lies fair;



5
Reflecting all the sky's bright, mingled hues,
It spreads, its dark blue mantle to the air.
And in those deep and silent solitudes
Far, far above us, in the heavens o'erhead,
Pensive and sad the evening star shines out,
Fastened in glowing lace of ruby red.

A SUNNY MORNING
The sails that quiver in the morning
breeze
Throb like the wings of snow-white
birds in flight;
The air that skims the sea makes
wrinkles fine
In its blue silk of woven crystals
bright.

Deep calmness broods upon the golden
coast;
So pure and delicate the wind appears,
When my hot face it cools, it seems
to me
My mother's kiss, which dries my 
childhood's tears.

Birds in a flock, upsoaring through the
air,
The shining whiteness of the cloud
adorn,
And stain the sapphire depths inviolate
Of the far sky, upon this tranquil
morn.

And in the quiet of these hours divine,
Two women's voices sounds from far
away.
Who knows what tender words that
melt the heart
They scatter in the stillness of the day?

Like most Mexican poetry, Urbina's verses are
generally sad; but there is often a sweetness mingled
with the sadness, as in "The Moonbeam":
Moonbeam, come in! Thou art a welcome guest.
'Tis long since I have seen thy silver flame.
Although I left the casement open wide,
Shadows above into my chamber came.
Ungrateful comrade, thou art still the same -
The beam transparent, gliding through the night
The beauteous gleam of splendor from on high,6
Diaphanous with amber's yellow light.
Come in! She is not here; naught canst thou spy.
Moonbeam, thou canst not now be indiscreet,
Even if thou upon thy nuptial couch
Shouldst cast thy pearly radiance, clean and sweet.
O'erflow the carpet like a glittering rain,
Flood all the silent room from wall to wall,
And, clinging to the darksome drapery,
Give it the semblance of a silver shawl!

See'st thou, all things are dusty and unkempt;
The heart is chilled to view their mournful air.
Upon the blackened nail the birdcage hangs
Empty and hushed; the song birds are not there.
See'st thou, around the railing rough the vine
Its faded blossoms wreathes; no flower we spy
 Upon the rose-tree; all the lilies now
Are withered, the sweet basil plants are dry.
Thou brightness indiscreet, from heaven above!
She loved thee in the past; I love thee now.
How often have I seen thy glimmering light
Reflected from her pure and pensive brow!
The girl with golden hair is here no more -
The dreamer, pale and white as ocean foam,
Who said, as on thy shifting light she gazed,
"It is the smile of God within our home!"



8
Urbina has written many love poems. Some
the most charming follow:

Witchcraft
I did not hear when you came in. Dark in the shadow of a slow sunset lay the ancient park of my thoughts, [which is surrounded] girt around by sadness
as by a wall. [lay dark in the shadow of a slow sunset]
I saw you arrive before me like magic, like the
marvel of an incantation, like the sweet apparition
of a fairy tale, white with the whiteness of snow,
and blonde with tresses of pure gold.
A breath of April blew through my autumn; on
every twig new leaves budded; in every forsaken nest
there were songs; and among the shadows of the
garden - wandering fireflies - dreams glittered, as before
the latest of my griefs.

An Evening Hour
Gold radiant and sad, light of the evening sky and
of your eyes! This sunset seems like one of your glances,
intense and calm. Luminous marvels of the sky and of
your eyes! Who knows what [secret and] vast and
secret tenderness the West feels? The soul of the
horizon is thinking. Life changed into splendor, is spreading
to me.
How merciful is the evening, how good,
mournful, transparent, pensive and serene!9
It holds neither a tragic portent, nor a shape
violence, nor a gloomy phantom, nor a bloody
cloud. A vision of gold, transparent and
divine, veils the blue with a light haze of
amber, and spreads to the summits, above the
dark rocks, the pale crimson of the roses of
March. The wind stirs the spring branches, and
I hear your voice among the fugitive voices of
the wind. The city,
that glows silently in the distance melts into the
ruddy brightness of the eve. The silence murmurs
its prayer. Before the sunset, the country trembles
like a timid girl. The shadow darkens the depths
of the sky, that look deeper the darker they grow;
and on the edge of the red vapor quivers the tremulous
crystal of a far-off star.
There is piety, there is a dream, there is love and
hope on the bright horizon. I am celebrating the
league between your eyes and the day. I believe
religiously in what your eyes and the sunset are
saying to me. Love, pity, a dream and hope - the
same things that are proclaimed to me by the splendors of
unfathomable eyes. A long-lasting
charm! So I remain absorbed, when face to
face with you, as when I face the brightness of the
rising star.



10
It is because in you, as in that brilliance of the 
west, there is a lovely mystery that stays my steps;
an augury of morning, a consoling promise of day,
a revelation of the dawn.
If you could see how peaceful the twilight is,
how good, how sad, how transparent, how pensive and
serene. It is one of your glances, quiet and intense;
one of the marvels of the heaven and of your eyes!

Although Urbina's poetry is full of beautiful
things, its moral tone is not always high. Sometimes
it is painfully low. The poet's
philosophy of life seems to be gloomy and hopeless.
When he is not celebrating the beauties of nature, his
verses are mainly preoccupied with individual griefs,
love affairs and disappointments. They seldom touch upon
the deeper world-problems. The deeper note does appear
occasionally, however, as in "The Fatherland of the Future,"
and in "Marching toward the Ideal" - a fine poem
dealing with the advance of the human race.
A few lines from this must suffice:

Where are they going? God knows! Ash, [a wave of
the sea] "What road do you follow O wave of the sea? Whither are you
flying, O bird? What is your path, O cloud? What, O breeze, your destination?? And breeze, and bird, and cloud will say, "It is a divine secret."
Where are we going? We are going thither. God knows!11
Humanity knows that a mysterious soul causes
everything to move upward by a starry stairway; that
what was a thorn yesterday will be a rose tomorrow; what
yesterday was a chrysalis, tomorrow will be a butterfly;
what yesterday was a wish, tomorrow will be a wing!
"The Sowers" is another striking
poem. It is addressed to the school teachers, and is of especial
interest just now, when a thousand new schools have
lately been opened in Yucatan alone. The teachers say"
Our function is a humble one, but it has its beautiful
moments; it is to open flower-cups and to unfold
wings. It is the same work that the lovely Spring time
does; and a crowd of birds and flowers awaits us.
Do not delay; march forward! The Spring never
abandons her work, nor leaves her labor unfinished.
Urbina's most beautiful poem is 
perhaps "The Mass at Dawn." The
story is supposed to be told by a lover to his lady:
THE MASS AT DAWN
Long ago, in times departed,
Long, long since, in distant ages,
That old church, to ruin falling,
Seemed to gazers at a distance
A caprice of mists and vapors
Hanging from the tall trees' branches.
From afar, the mass looked formless;
Coming nearer, clear to vision
Domes and towers displayed their outlines:
Architraves, a ruined portal,
Griffins, monsters and archangels,
And, in wondrous equilibrium
In the air, long rows of columns,
Bits of wall, like sails in tatters,
Cut the blue, transparent background.
In that glade amid the forest,
Leprous, crumbling, lo, the silent,
Gloomy church stood meditation.Look! in the darksome [E????] the [D????] [*anew*]
[*Shak*] Now shakes abroad her glitteruy tresses bright 
The morning star her strong + lovely [*light*] 
Skids amid clouds of changing[*ful*] opal hue. 
A mirror to its lauks and heaven’s blue 
Its lauks reflectery and the heavuns blue 
The [murmur????] river [s?????] along in might 
The modest violet hides herself from sight [*restles but of*] 
Outbreattering? [*Exhaling*] her secret scent, [&?] [f?th??] in decor 
The gentle [*tender?*] birds forsake the leafy shades: 
Where half blown rose and myrtle charm seer eyes 
They sing their loves, or [m?????] for love’s [*dis dain*] 
Audby by the breezes kissed [*Kissed by the breezes underneath*], beneath the skies 
The whispering leaves of the white poplar trees 
Look like a swarm of snowy butterflies3917 W Bk 
Martin

605 Tremont Temple

15 [?] Harnden [St] Rd 
Malden.

[The Woman's Journal letterhead]

Do You Remember:

How blue that night the sky was!
The stars how clear & bright!
What brilliant light the full moon [shed] poured
Smiling from heaven's height!
The sky without a cloud wreath [?]
The wood without a sound!
Tuberose & honey suckle
Spread dizzy scent around.

Yesterday I waited for you, [panting]
You opened softly, dear,
The casement of your window;
I to its bars drew near,
words then did I
What did my life then matter?
How sweet was [thy] your reply![Love covered our twin souls
that]
Our twin souls with [his] brooding
wings [that hour]
Love covered from on high.


Your small white hand was clasped
in mine;
It trembled suddenly:
"Run, there is someone coming!"
You said "Let no one see!"

How blue that summer night was!
How bright the moon lit plain!
The sky without a cloud flake
My soul without a pain!

285

To Leonora

[Da] Black as the wing of Mystery thine hair,
Black as a [dark] "Never," where deep shadow sorrow lies, 
As a farewell, or as the words "Who knows?"
Yet is there something darker still - [?] yes!
Two musing wizards are thy thoughtful eyes (those eyes of thine)
Sphinxes asleep in shadow, in the [?];
Tow beautiful enigmas, very fair [to see] -
Yet is there something fairer still - thy mouth!
Thy mouth! Ah, yes! Thy mouth, divinely formed
For love's expression & to be love's goal,
And for love's warm communion - thy 
young mouth!
Yet is there something better still - thy soul
Thy soul, retiring, silent, brimming o'er
[With] Of pity and [of] with tenderness, I [?], 
Deep as the ocean, the [most unsounded] [ocean's profoundest]
[sea] unsounded sea [and unknown] -
Yet is there something deeper still - thy 
dream!The
Woman Citizen
The Woman's Journal
FOUNDED 1870
MEMBER AUDIT BUREAU OF CIRCULATIONS

TELEPHONE: 4818 MURRAY HILL
171 MADISON AVENUE NEW YORK
OFFICE OF
THE BUSINESS MANAGER

July 1, 1919
Miss Alice Stone Blackwell,
3 Monadnock Street,
Dorchester, Mass.

My dear Miss Blackwell:
Please find enclosed herewith check
#1925 for $166.67, covering your salary for the month
of June.

Sincerely yours,
THE WOMAN CITIZEN

Per M. G. Regan

MR
Enc.

[*52*]Dawn
By Enrique Fernandez Granados of 
Mexico. Translated from the Spanish by
Alice Stone Blackwell.
Look! in the darksome east the Dawn anew
Now shakes abroad her glittering
tresses bright;
The morning star her clear and lovely light
Sheds amid clouds of changing
opal hue.
A mirror to its banks and heaven's
blue,
The murmuring river sweeps
along in might;
The modest violet hides herself
from sight,
Outbreathing her sweet scent,
and wet with dew.
The gentle birds forsake the leafy shades;
Where half-blown rose & myrtle
cheer our eyes.  (over)
They sing their loves, or mourn
for love's disdain.
Kissed by the breezes underneath
the skies,
The whispering leaves of the
white poplar trees
Looks like a swarm of snowy
butterflies.


In The Forest
I went through a glade of a forest,
on a senseless afternoon; and I heard
in the thicket a sound like a plaint of love.
It was a blackbird singing and beautiful
was his song.
Pilgrims of life, who, dreaming
like me, go smiling through the forest,
in quest of a vision! Do not linger,
O pilgrims, if you hear
love=calls; it is a blackbird singing, 
and he will
steal your hearts away.
I stayed my steps, for my misfortune,
or for my fortune - what
know I? It was a blackbird singing,
and beautiful was his song. Afterwards,
when the evening died, the bird fell
silent, the night came on; and I (over)wander lost through the dark forest,
without the blackbird, without
his song, without peace in my heart:
my soul full of music and my
life of bitterness, and always,
always in the dark, as if I were
forgotten by God.
[Do not tarry, O pilgrims,
if you should hear luring calls
of love!]
If you hear love calls, O 
pilgrims, do not tarry!3 copies
Worship
By Manuel Flores of Mexico. Translated
from the Spanish by Alice Stone
Blackwell.
Below the church's holy vaulted roof,
Where the sweet censer spreads pale mist abroad
And rich gold gleams & glitters - if I there
Lift unto heaven my solitary prayer,
Then in the temple the soul speaks to God.
But in the forest, in the desert wild,
Where the tall palm tree [lifts] rears its lofty bole,
Or on the shore where surf breaks
wild & warm,
Where Nature's glory shines in calm or storm-
There it is God who speaks unto the soul.
You cannot be an efficient suffragist without it

THE WOMAN'S JOURNAL
AND SUFFRAGE NEWS
EDITED BY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL

45 Boutwell Street, Dorchester,
Boston, Massachusetts

What do the suffrage planks say?
What is the Susan B. Anthony
     Amendment?
What is the war doing to women?
Who is "Hi" Gill?
What did the Boston and Maine do?
What is the matter with Colorado?
What is the good of a vote?
Why were the windows broken in England?
How can a girl live on $6 per week?
How would suffrage help the farm?
Hughes or Wilson - Which?
Why did Iowa lose?
What happened to Rose Livingstone?
How did a vote bring good milk?
What suffrage states are dry?
What does Mrs. Catt want?
Who stole Michigan?
Why isn't Reno different yet?
How did New Zealand save babies?
Why should farmers' wives vote?
Would women serve on juries?
Who bought girls at $1 a pound?
What countries have woman suffrage?
Is there a Negro woman menace?
What churches stand for suffrage?
What does State Rights mean?
How does the rotten egg traffic
     work?
Was Dickens a suffragist?
What have the women's clubs done
     with the vote?[Roundels?]

Ines de la Cruz (Sor Juana)

(Charges with inconsistency the vice and 
the censure of men, who [accuse] blame on women that 
of which they themselves are the cause).

Foolish men, who accuse woman 
without reason, without seeing that you are 
yourselves the cause of the very [the] thing that you blame!

If with unparalled longing you 
importune her when she scorns you, why 
do you wish that women should do well 
if you incite them to [evil] [do ill] evil?

You combat their resistance, and 
soon you gravely declare [that] to be light mindedness 
that which your own diligent efforts have 
brought about.

The audacity of your mad opinion 
is like the child you sets up a bug-bear 
and presently is afraid of it.

With foolish presumption, you wish 
to find her whom you seek Thais when 
you attempt her and Lucretia when you possess
[possess] [have] her.

What humor can be more extraordinary 
than that, [for] lacking [go] good counsel,
the same man should tarnish the mirror 
and regret that it is not clear?

You blame women alike whether they 
favor or scorn you, complaining of them if 
they treat you ill, mocking them if they 
love you dearly.

No woman wins your good opinion, 
since the most prudent is ungrateful if she 
does not yield to you and lightminded if 
she does.

You always proceed so foolishly that 
with unequal measure you blame one for 
being cruel and [others] another for being too easy.

Your amorous pains cast off 
restraint, and after making women bad, 
you wish to find them very good.

Who [has been] is the more in fault 
in an erring passion, she who falls through 
entreaty, or he who entreats her to fall?

Or [who] which is the more to blame, 
although either does ill, she who sins for 
pay or he who pays for sinning?

Then why are you terrified at the fault 
which you[r] yourselves have? Love women such as you make them, or make them 
such as you seek to have them be.

But between the anger and pain

(over)that your longing undergoes, God bless her 
who does not love you! Complain and 
welcome.

Then how must she be tempered, 
the woman [who aspires to] whom your love demands if she 
who is ungrateful offends you and she 
who is easy angers you?

Cease to [importune] entreat, and then 
with more reason you may accuse 
the inclination of her whom you go to 
ask.

Well with many weapons I 
maintain that your arrogance must 
contend, since in promises and 
importunity you unite the world; the 
flesh and the devil.

You said: "Let no one see!"

How blue that [summer] night was, and how bright
[The moon] The moon on hill and plain!
[How bright the moon lit plain!]
The sky without a cloudlet,
My soul without a pain!Do You Remember?
Enrique Fernandez Granados
That night how blue the sky was,
The stars how pure & bright!
How clear the light the full moon poured,
Smiling from heaven's height!
The sky without a cloudlet,
The woods without a sound?
Tube rose and honey suckle
Spread dizzy scent around.
Yearning, I waited for you.
You opened softly, dear,
The casement of your window;
With trembling I drew near.
What words then did I utter?
How sweet was your reply!
[How] Our twin souls with his brooding wings
Love covered from on high.
Your small white hand was clasped
in mine;
It quivered suddenly:
"Run, there is someone coming!" (over)[109]
Ausencia
Miguel Bolaños Cacho

Cuan tristes son las noches y los días,
lejos ¡ ay! del hogar, santo y querido!
Cómo suspira el [cora] corazón, perdido
en sueños de pasadas alegrías!
¡ Qué tristes las nocturnas armonías
del ruiseñor, junto al desierto nido!
¡ Qué aterrador, qué lugubre el ruido
del viento y sus salvajes sinfonías!
¡ Qué triste el sol, muriendo en occidente,
la tierra envuelve en pálidos reflejos!
Mas; qué dicha tan grande y verdadera,
la del que sabe bien que, aunque muy lejos,
una madre amorosa, eternamente
pensando en él, con ansiedad le espera!The
Woman's Journal
45 Boutwell Avenue, Dorchester, Boston, Mass.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
ALICE STONE BLACKWELL

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS
Mary Johnston
Stephen S. Wise
Josephine Peabody Marks
Zona Gale
Florence Kelley
Witter Bynner
Ben B. Lindsey
Caroline Barlett Crane
Ellis Meredith
Mabel Craft Deering
Eliza Calvert Hall
Reginald Wright Kauffman

BOARD OF DIRECTORS
Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt
Miss Alice Stone Blackwell
Mrs. Maud Wood Park
Mrs. Lewis Jerome Johnson
Mrs. George W. Blackwell

PUBLISHER
George Brewster GallupSlings
Ruben Dario

I dreamed a slinger bold was I.
Born 'neath Majorca's limpid sky.
With stones I gathered by the sea
I hunted eagles flying free,
And wolves; and when a war arose,
I went against a thousand foes.
A pebble of pure gold one day
Up to the zenith sped its way,
When mid thee heavens blue and wide
A huge jerfalcon I espied,
Attacking in the fields of air
A strange, bright bird, of plumage rare -
A wondrous bird, whose course on high
With ruby streaked the sapphire sky.

My stone returned not: but to me
The cherub-bird flew fearlessly. (over)Straight to my side it came, and said:
"Wounded, Goliath's soul has fled.
I come to thee from out the sky;
Lo, David's radiant soul am I!"ancient Spain, ancestress of nations!
Allow to be fulfilled the law - the only beautiful one -
which makes the roses break out into birds,
and of every bud makes another rose!

Admire the exploits of thy sons!
To wish to punish them in thy wrath
is to wish to tear out thine own entrails;
for those same legendary heroes (equal to the heroes of old legends)
have blood inherited from their forefathers,
blood of all thy visionary Quixotes
and of all thy warlike Cids.

O noble Spain! receive me in thine arms,
and, to the measure of my sonorous song,
renew the knot of the ancient ties;
for a golden ring, shattered into fragments,
now is not a ring, but is always gold!



My White House
By Manuel Gutierrez Najera.
Hid in a vale of flowers and fragrances,
Kissed by the glowing sun from heaven above,
I have a house, a mansion of white doves,
That is a nest of dreams, a home of love.

'Tis there the gentle breezes are most mild,
And there the purest is the stars' clear light;
'Tis there the birds breathe out their sweetest strains,
And stars set heaven's dark cloak aflame at night.

The cooing of the loving turtle dove
Is blended with the zephyrs gentle sigh;
The fountains flow with sweeter murmurs there,
And limpid is the sapphire of the sky.

There in the midst of that wild, fertile dale,
Clad in acacias & in April flowers,
Is seen my small white house, all girt about
With blooming orchards, pleasant garden bowers, 
The passing breezes as they touch its walls
Give it a kiss that trembles for love's sake,
And cool and shady thickets all around
White rose bushes and fair green myrtles make.2
Upon its walls the moss and ivy climb
And cover it with freshest greenery.
In the stone basin, bright the water shines
Cascades of pearls it scatters, fair to see.

How beautiful it looks, my small white house,
Beside a lake with clear blue waters bright!
It seems a dove that slumbers, hid away
In a love-nest of filmy fabrics light!

There with the earliest light of breaking dawn
When pallid whiteness o'er the sky is poured
The sacred bell appears to mourn aloud
The earth is then a song unto the Lord.

Running together, the cool drops of dew
Glimmer like pearls beneath the sun's clear light.
And 'mid the rising river-mists the cross
Is seen above the sanctuary white.

The birds their love-songs chant; with languid sound
The waters murmur as they glide along
The breezes sigh, the flowers their perfume shed
And listen to the sad and distant song.
And when the shadows wrap the world at eve,
When the sun sets below the ocean deep


Please make me one copy of this. And don't forget to put your bill in! A. S. Blackwell
Chilmark, Mass.

Song of Hope
By Ruben Dario

The blue is stained with a vast raven-flight;
A wind blows, threatening pestilence's blight;
In the far east, men slay in deadly fight.

Has Anti-Christ been born within the land?
Portents are seen, and marvels dire and grand.
Christ's second coming seems to be at hand.

The Earth is pregnant with so deep a smart,
The royal dreamer, musing sad apart,
Grieves with the anguish of the world's
great heart. -

Slaughtered ideals have brought sorrow great;
Humanity is prisoned now by fate
In a dark pit, with hounds of
war and hate.

Lord Christ, why dost thou wait to show
thy might,
To stretch o'er these wild beasts thy hand
of light,
And in the sun display thy [???????] bright?Swiftly arise, and pour life's essence free
On souls that crazed or sad or hardened be,
Loving the dark, forgetting dawn and thee!

Come then, O Lord, thine own true glory show!
Come with stars' trembling and
with earthquake's throe;
Bring love and peace from out the gulf 
below!

Let thy white horse the prophet saw, pass by,
Thy wondrous clarion sound from
heaven on high!
My burning heart shall in thy censor lie.



one copy
A Secret
By Luis A. Zamora (Chile)

O swallow, when you come again
To shady valleys, cool with dew,
And when thy violets in the fields
Unfold their leaves and bid anew.

If toward the South you turn your wings,
In my love's ear speak secretly:
Swallow, dark arrow of the air,
Tell him to watch and wait for me!

If he has died, O swallow dear,
Then bid him for my coming wait
Beneath a pall of rose bushes,-
For there it never is too late!

metre
    ____________________________
          ________________________
    ____________________________
          ________________________BLACKWELL FAMILY
ALICE STONE BLACKWELL

SUBJECT FILE

Spanish-American Poems: Translations
by Alice S. Blackwell Bolivia

A FUNEREAL LAMP.
Adhemar O'Connor D'Arlach.

     When the sun sets, when the sighing breeze speaks
to me of dying without fame, I kindle in the shadow of my
grief my inseparable lamp, lamp of alabaster: the memory
of thee!

     When I follow the wandering caravan, tragical and
wearied out, of my sorrows, in my soul of crystal I carry
lighted my inseparable lamp, lamp of alabaster: the memory
of thee!

     When the leaves as they are swept away sing their
aria, fleeting as was thy history, tears break forth and
impearl my beloved lamp, lamp of alabaster: the memory
of thee.

     Only my pale betrothed, Death the redeemer, must
some day put out the light of that lamp, lamp of alabaster,
the memory of thee.FUNERARIA
Adhemar O' Connor D'arlach.

Cuando se pone el sol, cuando gimiendo
me habla la brisa de morir sin gloria,
en la penumbra de mi pena enciendo
mi inseparable lampara,
lampara de alabastro: tu memoria!

Cuando sigo mi tragica y rendida
caravana de duelos migratoria,
en mi alma de cristal llevo prendida
mi inseparable lampara,
lampara de alabastro: tu memoria.

Cuando cantan las hojas que se arrastran 
su aria fugaz, como lo que tu historia,
brotan gotas de llanto que se enastan
en mi querida lampara,
lampara de alabastro: tu memoria.

Solo la mustia prometida mia,
la muerte redentora, 
ha de apagar un dia
la luz de aquella lampara,
lampara de alabastro: tu memoria. 


A SNOWY MOUNTAIN RANGE.
Eduardo Diaz de Medina.

     The snow goes on spreading its winding sheet over the 
monotonous breath of the dead plain, while from the hill with
the flock the [??] trumpeting, his note of warning.
     The flock comes, panting, and while they cross the dead
desolation of the plain, now on the wild stalks bits of wool
from their fleece are mingled with the vague paleness of the
dew which relaxes their whiteness.
     The snowy summits are like a shroud covering the barren
womb of the pampas, which imprisons corpses and fossils of a 
world a thousand years old.
     The flock and the sheepfold grow shadowy on the mountain, and the while the show tells its rosary, the wind lets fall a last response upon the earth.


SIERRA NEVADA.
Eduardo Diez De Medina. 

     La nieve va extendiendo su clamide mortaja
por la extension monotona de la planicie muerta,
mientras de la colina con el rebano baja
tarareando el chivato su cantico de alerta.

     Viene el tropel jadeantel y al cruzar por la yerta
desolacion del llano, ya en la bravia paja,
vellones de sus lanas se mezclan a la incierta
palidez del rocio que su blancor relaja.

     Las cuspides nevadas, semejan un sudario 
sobre el esteril vientre de la pampa que encierra
cadaveres y fosiles de un mundo milenario.

     La tropa y el aprisco se esfuman en la sierra,
y en tanto que la nieve desgrana su rosario,
el viento echa en responso final sobre la tierra. 

















[*Bolivia*]

TO AN ARTIST.
Armando Chirveches.

     The firm shape of the antique Diana, the sober harmony 
of proportion in the Greek profile, your slender rhythm, your
serene glance, make you more beautiful the more Pagan you are.
     And this poem of beauty is matched by your musical accent,
the delicious timbre of the voice that raises your rich bosom,
overflowing pure and supreme.
     And your dreamful artist's soul, scorning the prose of life,
rises like a triumphant bird;
     Intoxicated, it forms trills, trembling in the dizziness
of love, and at last, O lady! it folds its wings like a wounded bird. 
                                                 [tr?]


A UNA ARTISTA.
Armando Chirveches.

La forma dura de la antigua Diana, 
la euritmia sobria del perfil heleno, 
tu grácil ritmo, tu mirar sereno, 
te hacen más bella cuanto más pagana.

Y a este poema de beldad se hermana 
tu acento musical, el timbre ameno 
de la voz que alza tu opulento seno 
derramándose pura y soberana.

Y tu alma de artista soñadora, 
desdeñando la prosa de la vida, 
se levanta como ave triunfadora,

modula trinos ebria, estremecida 
en vértigos de amor y al fin, señora, 
pliega las alas como un ave herida.YOUTH AND HOPE.
Rosendo Villalobos.

The light of the future bursts forth gloriously, where 
there is youth and boldness and hope.  Only the impulse of youth succeeds 
in giving a new current to thought [the ideal].

In the course of time, fatally, the future advances 
beyond the past; but alas for him who forgets the teaching that our 
present good is an inheritance from other days!

Up, O youth!  You shall preserve your name unharmed in 
the battle of life, imprinted on the blasoning of victory;

Yonder on the summit let your standard wave in the 
fruitful wind of progress, under the divine influence of thought!


JUVENTUD Y ESPERANZA.
Rosendo Villalobos.

La luz del porvenir brota espledente 
Donde hay lucha y audacia y esperanza:  
Sólo el impulso juvenil alcanza 
Á dar al ideal nueva corriente.

En el curso del tiempo fatalmente 
El porvenir sobre el pasado avanza; 
Mas ¡ay, de aquel que olvida la enseñanza, 
Que á otros tiempos nereda el bien presente!

¡Arriba, juventud!  Tu nombre ileso 
Salvarás de la vida en la pelea 
Sobre el blasón de la victoria impreso;

Que allí en la cumbre tu estándarte ondea 
Con el soplo fecundo del progreso 
Y el influjo divino de la ideal

-Ocios Crueles.Proud Pity.
[Jose Santos Chocano.]

Sister, my sister! In your orisons, pray more for all who
have caused me to suffer than for me! In the end, I make songs
of my hours of anguish. The laurel of my forehead has grown out
of my breast. As God is ever in my soul - think upon the Holy
Wrath! -- I do not know what destruction may be wrought by my
exalted moods. It is better to let the hands wander over the lyre,
like Daniel when he saw himself surrounded by the lions!
In your orisons pray to God, sister, for the tongue that
lies and the finger that points, for the pain of Judas, for the
gloomy avoidance of Cain, for the night that follows behind the
back of the day, for the Fist that clenched itself in vain against
the Wing. Pray in your orisons for cold Calumny, for Treachery,
always ill with cowardice, and for sad Envy with its yellow face.
Pray for the wicked! Perhaps, my sister, what seems to us wickedness - 
is only torment.
Poor those who [sunk] plunged me one day in their mire; poor those
who insulted me [before] in the presence of the indifference with which the pride of my
sadness beheld them; poor those who trembled at my mere presence;
poor those who dragged in the dust even my poetry; poor those who
do not speak my name and keep it secret, sounding in their consciousness
like an [impeachment] accusation; poor all those who seek to profane
my heart, and to put my eyes out in order to hear my song. Sister,
good sister, my soul is full of something which begins as anger
and ends as sorrow.
I who have felt the world moving, as it does, because it

enter

2
has moved ceaselessly under my feet; I who have inherited the
steed of some Conqueror, or the shifting tent of some Indian
hunter; I who ought in old times to have been a monk or soldier,
because I am sad and strong as the Andes, -- I think that now the
infamy of other, with such exceeding pettiness, has given me
the right to be great. As I am content with my persecutions, and
the laurel of my brow has grown out of my breast, sister, my sister,
in your prayers give thanks to God for all who have made me suffer!LA ORGULLOSA PIEDAD
            _______
                I

Hermana mia, hermana: ruega en tus oraciones,
mas que por mi, por todos los que sufrir me han hecho . . .
Al fin yo de mis horas de angustia, hago canciones.
El laurel de la frente me ha brotado del pecho . . .
Como Dios esta en mi alma- [?] pienda en la Santa Ira!-
no se que estrago hiciese con mis exaltaciones . . .
[?] Mejor es que distraiga las manos en la lira,
como Daniel al verse cercado de leones! . . .

Ruega en tus oraciones a Dios, hermana mia,
por la lengua que miente y el dedo que senala,
por el dolor de Judas, por la huranez sombria
de Cain, por la noche que va a espaldas del dia,
por el Puno que en vano se crispa contra el Ala.
Ruega en tus oraciones por la Calumnia fria,
por la Traicion enferma siempre de cobardia
y por la Envidia triste de rostro amarillento . . .
Ruega por los malvados. Tal vez, hermana mia,
eso que nos parece maldad . . . solo es tormento.

Pobres los que simieronme en su lodo algun dia;
pobres los que insultaronme ante la indiferencia
con que los vio el orgullo de mi melancolia;
pobres los que temblaron a mi sola presencia;
pobres los que arrastraron hasta mi Poesia;
pobres cuantos se callan mi nombre y su secreto
tienenlo, en la conciencia sonando como un reto;
pobres cuantos pretenden violar mi corazon . . .
y sacarme los ojos para oir mi cancion . . .
Hermana, hermana buena; yo tengo el alma llena
de algo que empieza en ira y acaba al fin en pena . . .

                                        II

Yo que he sentido el mundo rodando, tal comos es,
porque incesantemente rodo bajo mis pies;
yo que herede el caballo de algun Conquistador,
o alguna movil tienda de un indio cazador;
yo que debi en un tiempo de ser monje o soldado,
porque soy melancolico y fuerte como el Ande,
pienso que ya la infamia de los demas me ha dado,
con tantas pequeneces, el derecho a ser grande.
Como estoy satisfecho de las persecuciones
y el laurel de la frente me ha brotado del pecho,
[?] hermana mia, hermana, dale en tus oraciones
gracias a Dios por todos los que sufrir me han hecho!

                                                    Jose Santos CHOCANO.
Diciembre, 1920. Peru?

MY MOTTO
Quand Meme
Ventura Garcia Calderon

With each new morning a new hope I launch
Forth [of] from this tossing Ark, where life is death;
My hope sets out, with [dawn's fresh] dawning's dewy breath,
In quest of peace and of the olive branch.
To that blue shore for which my longing yearns
About her neck the bird a message bears;
But from the distance far whereto she fares
The traveler to her dovecote ne'er returns.

From the high mast-head gazing wistfully,
My soul, like Sister Anna, explores the sea,
Searching the ocean's vast and gloomy plain.
Ah, me! In spite of hope deceived, for aye
Out of my dovecote still with each new day
New doves fly forth -- and they fly forth in vain!Ventura Garcia Calderon (Peru)

                   BLASON
                                        Quand Meme

Cada manana parte mi Esperanza
del Arca incierta en que muriendo/vivo.
Cada manana parte mi Esperanza
buscando paz y la rama de olivo.

A la ribera azul de mi anoranza
lleva en el cuello un mensaje cautivo;
mas la viajera de su lontananza
nunca regresa al palomar nativo.

Desde el mas alto palo de mensana
el alma esta, como la hermana Ana,
oteando el vasto y funerario mar.

[?] Ay! a despecno de la espera vana
salen a maufragar, cada manana,
nuevas palomas de mi palomar. Thy Mouth.

Sister, in hope,, Leticia sweet!
Thy mouth's a rose of that rose-tree
In which the heavenly nightingale
Has chanted for a century;
A rose of love, in cool green depths
Of a still garden fair to see,
Where, in the hush, pure water tells
In prayer its endless rosary.
Let thy voice sing a song of hope -
Voice that can make all glories ope,
After the sighs of life's dark hour!
For, with a new day's dawnlight free,
Comes in the white Epiphany,
The rose, the star, the orange flower!


Thine Eyes.

Thine eyes the sad adventure know
Of those that in a darksome night
Go roaming always round and round -
A night that has no dawning white.
Thine eyes are bright with fever's light -
A light from other worlds divine.
Two tapers, when thy frail life breaks,
Above the altar they will shine!
Giving me hope, they work once more
Saint Francis' miracle or yore,
Wrought on the throne, in wondrous wise.
Upon my sandy wastes of gloom,
Make all the thorns burst into bloom!
Sister, the spring is in thine eyes!Thine Hands.
Gregorio Cantaneda Aragon

Leticia, silent sister fair,
Thy bright hands thou wilt have to see
Fade like the lily or the rose
When past their time of bloom they be.

O hands translucent, grave and calm,
Touched with the lordly gift and grace
Of those that on the music's keys
Their ivory fingers used to place!

Let not thy mystic wishes seek
Blossoms with saintly faces meek
If thou wouldst offer flowers today!
Than snowy orange flowers more fair,
'Mid incense breath and chanted prayer,
Thine hands upon the altar lay!


p [56?]
The Eagles

Let eagles take their flight! They seek the light
Then let them raise themselves unto the skies
No matter whether of the sun or stars
The brightness be [which] that dazzles their keen eyes!
In quest of truth they go towards the unknown
               it may [be theirs] 
Perhaps they will attain to see the veil
                                        gloomy
Of mystery rent and the darksome night
You could not follow them except with fear
Fold them your wings in timid idleness
But they are born the lightning to defy
Valor to show that fears no earthly [?????].

You will not make their instinct unsubdued
Bow down before conventions [camouflage???]
Nor make them in the struggle stern of life
Stain the high glories of their noble race.
The far off gleams of a sublime ideal
They follow boldly showing all their pride,
And there is naught that goes more high, more far
Thou thought which soars with wings unfolded wide.

[*waste paper*]Telephone Plaza 4137                                      Cable Address Lomapo

ART & LIFE
Incorporating THE LOTUS MAGAZINE
THE LOTUS MAGAZINE FOUNDATION, INC.
664 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK, N. Y.

Miss Alice Stone Blackwell
Dorchester, Mass.

Dear Madam:-

Some days ago we mailed to you a copy of our new Art period-
ical, ART & LIFE, which with the June issue incorporated and succeeded
a former periodical, The Lotus Magazine. We trust that you have re-
cieved the copy forwarded to you and that to some extent at least it
has met with your approval.

ART & LIFE has been created to satisfy the tastes of those
who are interested in the finer things of life, and in particular for
those who are interested in Art and the collecting of Art-objects.
The copy of ART & LIFE which you have in your possession will, we be-
lieve, speak better for itself than can we; I think we can say without
exaggeration however that both in the character of its contents and in
the beauty and profusion of its illustrations it is unsurpassed among
our present day periodicals.

We feel therefore that ART & LIFE is deserving of the support
of those who are lovers of the finer things of life, realizing that to
them primarily it will make its appeal.

We take the liberty of writing this letter to you in conse-
quence, believing that ART & LIFE will be a source of sufficient pleas-
ure to you to assure us of your support.

Very truly yours,
Leslie M. Hickson



practically the same as the reservation Navajo,
Hualapai, Hopi & Apache, whose property cannot
now, nor for many years to come, be wisely
allotted. There are thousands of full-bloods
and near full-bloods whose landed interests and
whose personal possessions and prospects are sug-
gestive of a capacity for independent self-support,
but who are not qualified to withstand the com-
petitive tests that would follow a withdrawal of
federal guidance. To abandon these at the point
in their progress where elementary requirements
are shaping into self-reliance and a comprehension
of practical methods, would be to leave them a prey
to every kind of unscrupulous trickery that masks
itself in the conventions of civilization.

I shall not be outdone by anyone who would
hasten Indian progress by the extension of release
and obligation to those who are ready for this
status, nor shall I be swerved from what I believe
to be a course of just aid and protection to the
less fortunate and less progressive Indian.

It is not necessary in establishing the patriot-
ic and heroic part of the Indians in the world war to make
such unwarrantable statements as that they purchased over
sixty million dollars worth of Liberty Bonds. I feel that
their actual investment of $25,000,000 in this way is a
magnificent showing. No one questions the war-time evidence
of the Indian's Americanism or that it carries great weight
in the plea for his citizenship, and you are advised that a
bill approved by this bureau, which became a law in October
1919, provides that Indians who served in the military or
naval establishments of the United States during the war
against Germany and who have been honorably discharged may
be granted full citizenship by courts of competent juris-
diction.

Few things have been more obstructive to Indian
welfare than the professional agitator who claims the
abolishment of governmental supervision as the salvation
of the Indian. There would be no wisdom in the withdrawal
of federal supervision over all Indians at this time. The
result would be that a large number of old or incompetent

-3-Let the high soul that things
quoble? wound
Shake off the dust of earth
& seek the skies
Although in silence matter
mute (?) alone
Opens its bosom to
him when he diesTwo tongues of ruddy flame that wind, embracing
One trunk with equal aim,
Draw near, more near - and as they kiss each other
Become one flame;

Two notes that from the lute the hand together
Flings forth upon the air,
That meet in space, and, melting and harmonious,
Are blended there;

Two waves that roll together towards the sea beach
To [perish there] break and pass away
And with one plumy crest are crowned in dying
Of silvery [fair] spray;
Two mist wreaths from the lake that rise, upfloating
heaven's height,You cannot be an efficient suffragist without it

THE WOMAN'S JOURNAL
AND SUFFRAGE NEWS
EDITED BY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL

45 Boutwell Street, Dorchester,
Boston, Massachusetts

What do the suffrage planks say?
What is the Susan B. Anthony
Amendment?
What is the war doing to women?
Who is "Hi" Gill?
What did the Boston and Maine do?
What is the matter with Colorado?
What is the good of a vote?
Why were windows broken in England?
How can a girl live on $6 per week?
How would suffrage help the farm?
Hughes or Wilson - Which
Why did Iowa lose?
What happened to Rose Livingstone?
How did a vote bring good milk?
What suffrage states are dry?
What does Mrs. Catt want?
Who stole Michigan?
Why isn't Reno different yet?
How did New Zealand save babies?
Why should farmers' wives vote?
Would women serve on juries?
Who bought girls at a $1 a pound?
What countries have woman suffrage?
Is there a Negro woman menace?
What churches stand for suffrage?
What does State Rights mean?
How does the rotten egg traffic 
work?
Was Dickens a suffragist?
What have the women's clubs done
with the vote?



You cannot be an efficient suffragist without it

THE WOMAN'S JOURNAL
AND SUFFRAGE NEWS
EDITED BY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL

45 Boutwell Street, Dorchester,
Boston, Massachusetts

What do the suffrage planks say?
What is the Susan B. Anthony
Amendment?
What is the war doing to women?
Who is "Hi" Gill?
What did the Boston and Maine do?
What is the matter with Colorado?
What is the good of a vote?
Why were windows broken in England?
How can a girl live on $6 per week?
How would suffrage help the farm?
Hughes or Wilson - Which
Why did Iowa lose?
What happened to Rose Livingstone?
How did a vote bring good milk?
What suffrage states are dry?
What does Mrs. Catt want?
Who stole Michigan?
Why isn't Reno different yet?
How did New Zealand save babies?
Why should farmers' wives vote?
Would women serve on juries?
Who bought girls at a $1 a pound?
What countries have woman suffrage?
Is there a Negro woman menace?
What churches stand for suffrage?
What does State Rights mean?
How does the rotten egg traffic 
work?
Was Dickens a suffragist?
What have the women's clubs done
with the vote?2
Which mingle there & form amid the ether
One cloud of white;

Two thoughts which dawn together, or two kisses
Given at once, which in one breath combine;
Two echoes that are in one sound commingled -
These are thy soul and mine!ORIENTAL MUSIC.
Francisco de A. Icaza

Close the piano! Bring not to remembrance
Those Eastern dances, woven languorously -
Those cadences of Oriental dances
That lulled so oft my dreams, in days gone by!

My hatreds were not dead: they only slumbered
Within their serpent-nest; their sleep hath ceases,
And their three-cornered heads they now are showing,
Awakened by the music of the East.



Thine Eyes.

Thine eyes the sad adventure know
Of those that in a darksome night
Go roaming always round and round -
A night that has no dawning white.
Thine eyes are bright with fever's light -
A light from other worlds divine.
Two tapers, when thy frail life breaks,
Above the altar they will shine:
Giving me hope, they work once more
Saint Francis' miracle of yore,
Wrought on the thorns, in wondrous wise.
Upon my sandy wastes of gloom,
Make all the thorns burst into bloom:
Sister, the spring is in thine eyes!Thy Mouth.
Sister in hope,, Leticia sweet:
Thy mouth's a rose of that rose-tree
In which the heavenly nightingale
Has chanted for a century;
A rose of love, in cool green depths
Of a still garden fair to see,
Where, in the hush, pure water tells
In prayer its endless rosary.
Let thy voice sing a song of hope - 
Voice that can make all glories ope,
After the sighs of life's dark hour!
For, with a new day's dawnlight free,
Comes in the white Epiphany,
The rose, the star, the orange flower!2 copies

Thine Eyes
Thine eyes the sad adventure know
Of those that in a darksome night
Go roaming always round and round -
A night that has no dawning white.
Thine eyes are bright with fever's light -
A light from other worlds divine.
Two tapers, when thy frail life breaks,
Above the altar they will shine!
Giving me hope, they work once more
Saint Francis' miracle of yore,
Wrought on the thorns, in wondrous wise.
Upon my sandy wastes of gloom,
Make all the thorns burst into bloom!
Sister, the spring is in thine eyes!

Thy Mouth
Sister in hope, Leticia sweet!
Thy mouth's a rose of that rose-tree
In which the heavenly nightingale
Has chanted for a century; (over)A rose of love, in cool green depths
Of a still garden fair to see,
Where, in the hush, pure water tells
In prayer its endless rosary.
Let thy voice sing a song of hope -
Voice that can make all glories ope,
After the sighs of life's dark hour!
For, with a new day's dawnlight free,
Comes in the white Epiphany,
The rose, the star, the orange flower!p. 54 Venezuela
Martin de la Guardia  (Heraclio)
Las Águilas
Dejad volar las aquilas. - Van ellas
hacia la luz: dejad las que se encumbran;
no importa que del sol o las estrellas
con el brillo sus ojos se deslumbren.
Buscando la verdad van a lo ignoto;
buscando lo inmortal van a la altura,
y el velo acaso del misterio roto
a ver alcancen en la noche obscura.
No [pro] podréis conseguir que con desmayo
pleguen el ala en inacción cobarde;
nacidas son a desfiar el rayo
ya hacer de audacía y de valor alarde.
No lograréis que su indomable instinto
a convención vulgar quiebre o se doble,
ni que, an la lucha de la vida, extinto
manchen las glorías de su estirpe noble.
De un ideal sublime los reflejos
siguen audaces ostentado galas,
y nada va más alta ni más lejos
que el pensamiento al desplegar [?].

2
Dejad volar las aguilas. - No importa
que, al ver[se] se ocultan en la nube [um] umbría,
juzgue la turba ante su audacía absorta
locura y sacrilegía su [a] osadía.
No importa que al traer nuevas extrañas
del país de los sueños no se crean;
iras las burlen, y las hieran sañas
y desdeñadas por los hombres sean;
que en vano fué, la voy de las profetas
al revelar sus sueños, desaída;
pues pensadores, genios y poetas
son astros en las noches de la vida.
Dejad que al polvo terrenal sacuda
[a] el alma altiva a quien lo innoble hiere;
y que en silencio la materia muda
sólo le abre su seno cuando muere.
¿ Que nada alcanzarán? Basta a su gloria
lanzarse a los abismos del problema,
y ser, purificada toda escora,
del sacrificio símbolo y emblema.
Que si dejar quisieran, bajo el yugo,
que la[s] fuerza brutal su fe les rob[a?]3
en explosión de cólera al verdugo
dirán en su dolor: "E [pur?] si [muove?]."
¿ Para qué más luchar si nada puede
contra la luz vuestro poder exiguo?
A otro ideal vuestro ideal ya cede,
y está agrietado el pedestal antiguo.
Y la nueva progenie trae en sus hombros
el arca de las leyes del futuro;
y al eco de sus trompas, en escombros
convertidos serán los viejos muras.
Ellas del porvenir el sol anuncían,
y los misterios de la vida inquieren;
y ante el severo fallo que pronuncían
reinar los mitos del error no esperen.
Y aun a pesar de la corriente impura
de tanto vicio que el presente mancha,
bondades irradiando y hermosura,
los horizontes, la verdad ensancha.
Dejad volar las águilas caudales
por el campo infinito de la idea:
están alli las fuentes inmortales
y allí está el germen que transforma
y crea!Would I Were Thy Mirror!
By Fabio Fiallo of San Domingo. Translated from the Spanish by Alice
Stone Blackwell.

How happy is the sun! To gaze on thee
He hastes his course with every dawning day --
Comes to thy window, to thy chamber fair
Soon through the open lattice finds his way.

To thy soft couch of slumber he comes up,
Gives warmth and life unto thy beauty bright,
Becomes a rhythm in thine azure veins,
And in thine eyes an epigram of light.

May, not the sun I envy, but the mirror
Where thy proud beauty's image oft hath met thee.
Joyous, it loves thee while thou art before it,
And when thou dost depart, it will forget thee!



Hymn to the Tree
Gabriela Mistral    (Chile

O brother tree, fast fixed in earth
By brown hooks 'neath the soil that lie,
Yet rearing thy clean brow aloft
With fervent yearning for the sky!

Pitiful make me towards the dross
Whose dark mire feeds me, low and dumb,
Yet never let the memory sleep
Of that blue land from which I come!

Thou to the traveler dost announce,
O tree, thy gently presence near
By thy refreshing, far flung shade,
And by the fragrant atmosphere.

So may my presence be revealed
Amid life's fields, where'er I be,
By my warm, gentle influence
Shed over others silently!
O tree, productive ten times o'er -
Of rosy fruit thy leaves between,
Of wood for building, perfumed airs,
And sheltering foliage, cool and green!2
Thou tree of soothing, healing gums
And wondrous resins - bounteous tree,
Full of wild vines that weigh thee down
And throats athrill with melody!

Oh, make me rich in giving forth,
To equal thee in fruitfulness!
Tree, let my heart, my thought, become
Wide as the world, to help and bless!

Let all of life's activities
Leave me unwearied, like to thee!
From me let mighty lavishness
Flow forth without exhausting me!

O treewherein the pulse of life
So tranquil beats, through peaceful hours!
The fever of the century
With deep unrest consumes my powers.

Make me serene, make me serene,
With noble calmness, brave and bright,
Such as a breath of the divine
Gave to the Grecian marbles white!

Thou art a woman's gentle womb,
Fair tree; thy boughs with nests are rife,
And every branch, soft swaying, rocks
In each warm nest a tiny life.



3
Give me a leafage great and thick
To meet the needs of all who roam -
Who in the human forest vast
Have found no branch to be their home!

Tree that, where'er thy strong trunk stands,
On hill or plain, in every place,
Keepest the self-same attitude
Of sheltering and protective grace!

So may my soul, in each estate -
Youth, age, joy, grief, whate'er befall -
Still hold the self-same attitude
Of love unchanging, love to all!White Clouds
Gabriela Mistral
White sheep, dear sheep, with snowy fleece outswelling
As gauze the wind blows through!
Like women, you just show your questioning faces
Beyond the hill so blue.

It seem that you consult the sky, the weather,
In artless, timid way,
Or you await an order to move onward.
Have you a shepherd, say?
Oh, yes indeed, we have a shepherd, truly:
The wandering wind is he;
And sometimes lovingly our fleece he handles,
And sometimes wrathfully.

Now to the north, now to the south
he sends us;
He bids, and we must go;
But through the fields of boundless
blue to guide us
The wind right well doth know. (over)
2
Have you a lord and master, sheep with fleeces
White as the snow to see?
Would you like me for shepherd, if he trusted
His heavenly flock to me?
The beauteous flock, 'tis certain, have a master,
Like those below are they.
Beyond the tremulous gold of start that quiver
Our master dwells, they say.
To follow us through this far-stretching valley
Might tire you, shepherd fair;
And your flock too have delicate, fine
fleeces:
Would you forsake them there?

enter

3
She pleaded, sighing deep,
"They will make sweet the lowly [gr??]
Where lies my love asleep!"
Without a word, while fast as hers.
My tears began to fall,
For that sweet maiden in her grief
I plucked my roses all.
To bring her ruddy offering
She flew with footstep light;
And straight way on my rose-tree bloomed
A myriad roses whiteMy Rose Tree
Fabio Fiallo
Within the courtyard of my home
There grows a rose-tree fair:
The passers by all envy me
Those flowers beyond compare.
In every rose there lies a grief!
Some dexterous knife, indeed,
Seems to have pierced a thousand hearts:
The sunlight makes them bleed.
Like tears appear the dew drops clear
It wears at break of day.
Who knows the mysteries it hides,
Of which it naught may say?
Its color and its perfume strange
Thrill to the bosom's core.
He who has once that fragrance breathed
Forgets it never more.
The fairest daughter of the Czar
Asked for my roses [???]



2
To weave a bright, triumphal wreath
To crown her father's head.
"Pardon, your Highness, but my flowers
I could not bear to see
Adorn a chain to strangle men
Aspiring to be free."
An elegant, proud Cardinal
For roses asked one day
Upon his altar & his board
Their beauty to display.
"Your Eminence, excuse me, please!
I did not nurse their grace
To make a table's garland rich
Or (?) an altar place."
With salt tears running down her cheeks,
To bitter grief a prey,
A girl whose face was angel-fair
Came to my door today.
"Give me two roses, [???]"The Snow Flake
To soothe my pain because those cannot le? me,
Gasing? upen? me with an angel's air.
Those dost cumerse? thy fingers, cold and pallid.
In the dark mane of my tempestuous hair.
'Tis vain, O Woman! There, dost not console me.
We are a world apart, in nary? be the same.
If thou art snow, then why dost thou not freeze me?
Why do I melt the not?, if I am flame?
Thine hand, so spiritual & transparent
When it caresses my sutmissen? head,
to but the snow cup? crowning the volcano,
Whose burning lava- defeats? this benecelts?
it spread. Stories of the Cid

by Ruben Dario.

---------------------------------

Barbey relates, in verse well worth his prose,
A story of the Cid, fresh as a rose ,
Pure as a pearl. In it we do not hear
Spain's trumpets on the wind ring loud and clear.

Nor do the Moors flee, when day's beams reveal,
Bright in the sun, Tizona's soul of steel.
Resting awile from war's wild hurricane,
Calm browses Babieca on the plain,
While the brave knight goes forth to breathe the air,
And to enjoy the time of the blossoms fair,
Spring smiles; with life's swift course, that onward streams,
In the world's garden lilies bloom, and dreams,
Rodrigo, musing, wanders through the land,
Till in his path, in spring's clear sunlight bland,
A leper stops him, holding out his hand. 

There face to face the prince of victory, 
Youthful, and beauteous like St. James to see,
Stands with the living horror, all unsound, 
Live carrion, spreading poison stench around. 

And the ill-omened beggar, craving alms,
Outstretches to Rodrigo suppliant palms.
Rodrigo seeks his purse; it is not there. 
"O Cid, an alms !" the lost soul makes his prayer.
"The bare alms of my hand I offer thee,
Brother !" He doffs his gauntlet hastily,
And to the wretch holds out his bare right hand.
The beggar weeps; his heart can understand !
           
               .                 .                .                .

The Constable this deed like precious wine
Pours out, within his cup of France to shine. 
I add a sip of liquor brought from Spain:

The Cid, when he had donned his glove again,
Followed the vernal pathway fair to see.
A bird flung notes of crystal from a tree;
A perfume sold of grace the deep sky shed,
In the day's glory o'er the landscape spread.
The chapels' bells poured out o'er wood and wold
Their sweet melodious rain of sounds of gold;
The soul of flowers went forth along the ways
To blend with pilgrims' voices, chanting praise.
Content, the great Rodrigo de Vivar
Went as if in his breast he bore a star.
                         (1)


Then from the fragrant field sprang up a maid,
And came to him, in innocence arrayed.
She might have been a woman, sweet and white,
With franks, angelic eyes that shone with light;
She might have been a fay, a magic thing,
An incarnation of the heavenly spring.

"O soul of love and fire ! I bring to thee,
In God's and in Ximena's name," said she,
"This budding rose and this fresh laurel spray !"
The leaves of laurel waved his helmet o'er,
In his iron glove a budding flower he bore,
And honey-sweetness in his soul that day.

Version by Alice Stone Blackwell.3.
[Spanish American poets, was indebted not a little to Gutierrez Najera, As
one distinguished critic has said, "All the singing birds of Spanish America
awoke in his nest."
Some samples of his work follow. It must be remembered that the music
and grace of the original are necessarily lost in the translation.]

Ephemera

Whither do the sweet sounds fly
When their latest echoes die?
Like an ocean is the air:
On its vast expense they row,
Where its moving currents flow,
And they sink and founder there.

Where does fragrance take its flight?
It is volatile and light;
Soon it scatters and is fled.
Like a vampire dark, the air
Drinks its fleeting essence rare,
And the perfume sweet is dead.

In what deep and unknown bed
Does the red sun hide his head
When their cloak the shadows close?
And the pale stars, sad and fair,
Whither go they from the air
When the daylight comes? Who knows?

Like a grace, the air devours
Breath of song and scent of flowers,
Things that shine and things that mourn.
Brief vibrations Time soon blights,
Sounds and fragrances and lights
Vanish to the self-same bourne.

But soft music live again;
Throbs anew each thrilling strain,
As the will of man may please.
'Tis asleep, it is not dead[;]:
Would you wake it when 'tis fled,
Strike, ye artists, strike the keys!

Fragrance does not wholly fade;
Every atom, unafraid,
Scatters through the air's clear flood, -
Quivers on the verge of death,
Goes to hide its perfumed breath
In the petals of the bud.


Underneath the ocean wave
Stands a palace grand and brave,
Where the sun at night doth dwell.
There his red glow sleeping lies:
Ruddy corals are his eyes,
And his chamber is a shell.

Past the polar plains that freeze,
On the hyperborean seas
Sad [Shines] the Great Bear, [sad and mute.]  shines from space.
Till the daylight wanes and closes.
Hidden the cold star reposes
At a snowy mountain's [foot] base.

Every death is only seeming;
In the East the sun comes gleaming,
And the moon from sea waves blue;
And the winds that rise and spread,
They are full of all the dead
Who are soon to live anew.

But within what hidden grave,
In what flower, beneath what wave,
In what chambered sea-shell rare,
On what snow-plain far away,
While forgetfulness holds sway,
Lives my love, O lady fair?Nervo.

If a thorn wounds me, I draw back from it. 
I do not hate the thorn. If, hating me, 
Some base hand pierces me with malice blind, 
Silent I turn away, and go to find 
A purer air of love and charity.

Rancor! In what? Has good e'er sprung from it? 
Now wound it stanches, puts no evil right. 
Scarce has my rose free time to bear its flowers; 
It wastes no vital sap on thorns of spite.

And if my foe should near my rose tree pass,
He shall pick from it many a fragrant bud; 
And if he sees in them a vivid red, 
The tint will be the redness of my blood - 
Blood drawn by his ill-will of yesterday, 
In hatred that it seemed could never cease, 
And which the rose tree now in perfume
smell
Returns to him, changed to a flower of
peace.Nervo -

If a thorn [weves?] me, I draw
 Massachusetts Woman Suffrage Association
   6 Marlborough Street, Boston

President, Mrs. Lucia Ames Mead                              Vice-President, Mrs. Mary Schlesinger
                             HONORARY VICE-PRESIDENTS

Mrs. Julia Ward Howe
Hon. John D. Long
Mrs. Quincy A. Shaw
Hon. John L. Bates
William I. Bowditch
Prof. Borden P. Bowne
Rev. P.S. Henson D.D.
Hon. Samuel L. Powers
Miss Helen A. Whittier
Mrs. Emma Walker Batcheller
William Lloyd Garrison
Mrs. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward
Col. Thomas W. Higginson
Rabbi Charles Fleischer
Mr. Edward H. Clement
Prof. George E. Gardner
Rev. William E. Huntington, D.D.
Rev. Nathan E. Wood, D.D.
Hon. Josiah Quincy
Mrs. Ole Bull
Mrs. Oliver Ames
Mrs. Geo. F. Richardson
Mrs. Charles Stott
Mrs. H.L. Tibbetts
Miss Lucia M. Peabody
Rev. Chalrews G. Ames
Mrs. Fanny B. Ames
Miss Mary F. Eastman
Hon. W.W. Crapo
Mrs. Susan S. Fessenden
Mrs. George A. O. Ernst
Rev. Philip S. Moxom
Mrs. May Alden Ward
Miss Amanda M. Lougee
Mrs. Mary C. Atkinson
Rev. Charles F. Dole
Rev. J.L. Withrow, D.D.
Hon. Gorham D. Gilman
Mrs. Katherine Lente Stevenson

Clerk, Mrs. John Leonard  
Corresponding Secretary, Mrs.. Ada W. Tillinghast
Treasurer, Mrs. Gertrude B. Newell
Auditors, Mr. Arthur Perry, Mrs. Mary Hutcheson Page  Chairman Board of Directors, Mrs. Alice Stone Blackwell
Finance, Mrs. Mary Schlesinger, Industrial Conditions, Mrs. Otto B. Cole
Enrollment, Henry B. Blackwell
Legislation and Civics, Mrs. Charles Park
Literature and Press Work, Miss Alice Stone Blackwell


By its far heights, the mountain
To heaven lifts a prayer
White as its gleaming snow-fields,
Vast as its peak in air.

So near the sky its summit,
That whiteness, low and bright,
Changed to an invocation,
Soon reaches heaven’s height.

What does the lofty mountain
Ask of the heavens in prayer?
Always to have its snowy crown,
Its peak high, high in air;
And calmly, if the sunshine
Should melt its stainless sworn,
To join the torrent of its tears
To the abyss’s woe!Beneath the foligiage, trembling murmurously, 
Of my basilica, the winged prayer 
Alone should be breathed forth upon the air - 
Not here the poet's sweet, impassioned cry.
The Druids' shelter in old time was I; 
Hermits their [wounded] brows [would beat] were wont to beat 
& [and] tear 
Against my trees' rough bark; the prophets 
there 
Hung up their harps, in ages long gone by.

And once, upon a dread, momentous day, 
The vagrant wind paused, breathless, in its 
flight, 
On hearing from my depths of [twilight] shadow 
gray 
[Breathed] Come forth, with woe and sorrow infinite 
The greatest prayer that ever lips of clay 
[Was] lifted from this low world to heaven's lightThe Song of the Pines
By Ruben Dario
O pines, O brothers of the earth and air,
I love ye! Sweet, good, grave are all your word
You are a tree that seems to think and feel,
Caressed by dawns, by poets and by birds.
the winged sandal touched your lofty browns;
You have been mast, and stage, and judge's
chair,
O sunny pines,  pines of Italy,
All bathed in charm, in glory, in blue air!
Mute, sombre, knowing not the sunlight's gold,
Growing mid icy vapors gray and dull,
On dreamy mountains vast-pines of the night, 
Pines of the North, ye too are beautiful!
Like statues or like actors in your [?],
Outreaching toward the kisses of the sea,
O pines of Naples,
O girt about with flowers,
O pines divine, ye haunt my [?]

When in my wanderings, the Golden Isle
Gave me a place of refuge on her shore
To dream my dreams, there too I met the
pines- 
The pines my heart holds dear
forevermore:
Dear for their sadness, beauty, gentleness;
Their monkish look, their hair spread wide
above;
Their fragrance, as of one enormous flower.
Their sap, their voices, and their nests of love.
O ancient pines, which by the epics' wind
Were swayed, of which their glowing suns
were fair!
O lyric pine-trees of the Renaissance,
Aid of the gardens in the land of Spain!
Their arms [?] by the winds are stirred,
Tossed by the gusts that wake there, as they roam,
Sounds of soft plumage, sounds of satin robes
Sounds of the water and the ocean foam3
O night on which the hand of Destiny
Brought me the grief that still my heart's 
depths hold!
On a dark pine the moon her silver 
shed,
And by a nightingale I was consoled.
We are romantic. Who that lives is not?
He that feels neither grief nor love divine,
He that knows naught of kisses nor of song
Let him go hang himself upon a pine?
Not I! I persevere, The past confirms
My eagerness, my life that onward flows.
A lover I of dreams and forms, who 
comes
From far away, and toward the future
goes.

She has gone from us all to thus
far, shining shore
Where the friends of her youth
has crossed over before.
We gaze through our tears
on this life past away 
And what is the lesson 
it brings us today!
A lesson of friendship
of kindness & truth
Bearing on with age the
warm, heart throbs of youth
A slogan of progress, a
clarion call
Has been of late years
"Bread & roses for all."
Not bars material dole,
But beauty as well is the
right of each soul,
What sunshine for otters
her gentle life shed!
[?] her friends she
[?] roses
& bread.
With warm hospitality (?)
cordial & sweet
She brought them
together to good
things to eat -
On planning good [a?ta??s] her
kind thoughts were [b??t]
And [?] & flowerslovely she sent.
tell [ ?] pleasures wherever
Flowers bloomed all around
her, & as we look back
We can see how she
sowed them along her
life's trackLet the sweet maiden to the shore come down
I will seek beauteous pearls for her delight.
Let her permit the sleeping water there
With crystals to surround her foot so white
Oh [Yet Let] let her come, the pure and smiling maiden [seek the shore]
No ocean there her charms will mirror well
And while the darksome night is closing [settling] down
Stories of love lie in her ear will tell
When in the Orient the day shall dawn
She will behold white gauzy clouds on high
Like to the swans that float [within] upon the bay,
Gliding serenely, ripple the blue sky.
We from the palms will hang the hammock soft
And in its swaying, while [so] the light winds stir,
[Swiftly] the [sorrowful] sad hours will with swiftness pass away
And likewise golden dreams will also come to her
And if the moon upon the waves should spread
Her veil of beauteous silver [s?????] silently
The maid will hear my boat songs to [to the sound] the rising clear
Sung to the oar that cleans the sleeping sea
While the Night fastens to her garments dark
Brooches of pearls & rubies [?] gleaming bright
And shooting stars across [the] heavens flash
[Bright] Like tiers of gold [upon] against the sapphire height
The sea to thee will waft his cooling breath [to thee]
Veiled by thin mists that air the waters roam
Because the pearly shell, the nest of love,
Richly desires the kisses of the foam
O maiden, come! The tide begins to rise
The land breeze now is blowing warm + light
[Thee] You shalt have tortoise shell to deck [your] thine hair
And ruddy coral for [your] thy [snow white] neck so white
The sweet girl came down trembling [to the shore] and she bathed 
[She bathed] her white foot where the [water] tide the sea [wall?] leaves
Later, when she had gone away in tears,
I found fair pearls among the briny wavescopies
The Mass at Dawn.
From the Spanish of Luis G. Urbina. Rendered 
into English verse by Alice I. Steve Blackwell.
Do you know it? 'Tis a story
That the mothers tell their children
On the cold, sad nights of winter,
While the wind, that vagrant, whistles
In the streets his [mournful] doleful ballads,
And, left hands unseen are drumming
Upon all the clouded windows.
Do you wish to hear [it?] the story? [Well, then,]
[Gage] Then into mine eyes [profoundly,] gaze deeply,
And within your orbs of onyx
Let those sands of diamond sparkle
That within your eyes are kindled
When you wish my sight to dazzle.
O my verses, birds ungrateful!
Start again upon your journey, 
For my spring once more is with me.
Now spread wide your wings of azure,
Build your nests now in my poems!

2.
Long ago, in times departed,
Long, long since, in distant ages,
That old church, to ruin falling,
Seemed to gazers at a distance
A [?] of mists and vapors
Hanging from the tall trees' branches.

From afar, the mass looked formless;
Coming nearer, clear to vision
Domes and towers displayed their outlines:

And, in wondrous equilibrium,
In the air, long rows of columns,
Bits of wall, like sails in tatters,
Cut the blue, transparent background.
In that glade amid the forest,
Leprous, crumbling, lo, the silent,
Gloomy church [was] stood meditating.
In your eyes the diamonds glitter! 
Do you then my tale encourage?
Let them gleam, romantic dreamer!
Long ago, in distant ages....

3.
But, as there exists no sadness
Without comfort, so the ruin,
Standing vast and sad and silent,
 In its solitude found pleasure
Every morn - can you believe it?
At the advent of the dazzling
Earliest gleam of virgin brightness
From the deep, remote horizon's[3]
Lapis - [la?ali], there issued
From the architraves and [fri?es]
Of the lofty gothic belfry.
From the [????ious] of the angels,
From the walls of ciselled stonework,
From the niches of the statues,
Flocks of birds, in endless numbers,
Chirping, twittering and singing.
When the rising sun has kindled
[Leving] Vivid, bright triumphal arches
Back behind the vague, dim mountains
And the mists that veiled the landscape,
On the broken ranks of columns,
On the bent and twisted pillars,
On the shattered spires and summits,
In the aisles and their recesses,
Gleamed and shone - made up of atoms
Restless, brilliant, scintillating - 
Thin and subtle golden gauzes,
Like light, filmy shawls in tatters.
4.
Ah, the church is not deserted!
Worshippers are still within it.
See how thickly in the transept 
The loquacious swallows gather!
Of this temple, they the nuns are,
And the monks are the song-sparrows.
On the story wreaths and garlands
Multitudes of nests are builded.
And there issue from dark openings

4
In the curtains of the foliage
Flowers of purple morning-glories,
Wild calendules, red tulis,
Jacinths white as alabaster,
Blossoms of the wild field-daisy,
And, embroidering the drapery
Here and there - deep spats of crimson -
Myrtle blossoms, rich, blood-colored.
And the velvets of the mosses,
Greenish black, of tints that vary,
Border every edge and outline
With their tapestries Arabian,
Torn by gusty winds and breezes
Into pierced rosettes, [vast] and trefoils.
Ah, the church is not deserted!
Worshippers are still within it.
Here the flowers their mass are holding!
Do you see how lush the rose-vines
O'er the church steps, worn and rugged,
Spread their branches, climbing, climbing,
In a crowd, the pious peasants?
Early worshippers, the roses!
They are going to the temple;
It is very late already!5 

To the choir have come the violets, 
And of each corolla swinging, 
Now they make a fragrant curser. 
Pinks in legions lift their clusters; 
And the nettles are adorning 
The " most holy " of the altar ; 
And the poppy , very careful
of the satin of her petals, 
Peeps among the sharp and prickly
Labyrinth of thorny bushes. 
Yes, the flowers their mass are holding ! 
There is like wise a procession : 
' Tis a swarm of iridescent, 
Restless dragon-flies that wander! 
All the herbage, green and tiny, 
Bows- the birds officiating. 
No, the church is not deserted ; 
Worshippers are still within it! 
Sadness finds its consolation , 
And that dark gigantic ruin, 
Full of ancient memories mournful 
And of solitude unending,
Meditates : - Yes, thou, O Nature ! 
Art a mother, a good mother! 

5. 

But how sad, 0 ruined temple ! 
Thou at eventide appearest, 
when the birds are hushed in slumber, 
When the flowers have closed their petals, 
And the sable parasitic 
Plants upon the domes up growing 
Point themselves against the sunset, 
Straight , immovable, far- branching , 
Looking like the plumes funereal 
Shadowing the helms of giants! 
Faint and long and horizontal, 
Tired and weary with its journey, 
Gleaming like a golden arrow, 
Comes to fasten for a moment 
On the cross above the belfry
That spreads wide its arms to heaven, 
One pale sunbeam, the last breathing 
Of the light about to perish. 
Come again, as always Darkness, 
Cold, impalpable and stealthy, 
Thou the silent , thou the soundless, 
Thou the traitorous, the constant ! 
Come gain ! The church in sadness 
meditates : " God! How the stars gleam ! 
What unending light of diamonds ! 
Space is now a blazing chapel.[6]
Oh, what myriad lamps in heaven!
In the air what deep transparence!
Ah, would but one star come hither,
Fix itself among my shadows!
Ah, if but its trembling brightness 
Would illuminate my shadows!
6.
On a night in chill December....
How did it befall? We know not!...
One cold night, so cold, so frigid
That, amid thy radiant heavens,
All [that] the stars, bestrewn and scattered
Like a rain of orange blossoms, 
[Trembled] Shivered - it was then a pilgrim
Leave there, sad and solitary.
'Twixt acanthus leaves, deep carven
On a capital, which, fallen,
Overturned [???] the herbage, 
Had become a vase of foliage, 
His gnarled staff he placed; there forward
Took his way, the steps ascending,
Portico and portal passing.
The birds whispered, "Who is coming?
Who is this? A saint? An image,
From its ancient niche downfallen?
No, it is a man!" This pilgrim
Passed from sight at [last], and vanished
In the depths of dim, dark shadows.

7.
Suddenly it creaked, the temple;
Fleeting flashes crossed the shadows, as if shining flags were passing.
And a miracle was wrought there:
Rose the porch, severe, triumphant;
All the walls grew whole and solid, 
All the pillars rose unbroken,
Arch and arch embraced each other,
In a curve the aisles met softly;
The majestic architecture,
Slender, elegant and airy, 
In a glorious ascension
Steadily kept rising, rising, 
Till against the sapphire heaven
Spires and pinnacles were outlined!
No details was lost or lacking
[Neither] Sculptured saints nor (?) monarchs,
Nor the crystals of the agive (?)
Nor the leaves whom the garlands
Nor whom the walls the lace work
Nor the edges of the stonework
Nor the veinings of the marbles
E'en the rusty mechanism
Of the church clock, slowly, gravely
Now began the time to follow,
One by one the moments marking.8
Now within the sculptured [?]
How much light! Is someone coming?
How much light within the sculptured
[?]! What, is someone coming?]
From afar, a row of torches
seems the valley to inundate; 
And amid the dense, deep forest,
Here and there among the tree-trunks,
Bright red flames now prick the darkness.
All things are alive and stirring;
In the air the bell is swinging.....
Come, the mass is just beginning!
And in litters and on horseback,
In great crowds, from all directions,
Come they - nobles and plebeians,
Princesses and royal princes,
Laborers and lowly peasants, 
And the bishops, and the abbots.
All of them ascend the church steps,
Cross the canal, through the temple.
From the multitude, so earnest
To get in, a clamor rises;
They would enter, but they cannot,
For there is no space left empty.
And within - how many tapers!
Radiant, glittering constellations!

They light up the arabesque-work,
make the alters glow like tinder,
Hang in masses yellow fringes
On the columns, the adornments
Of the aisles incrust with jewels.
All the chandeliers of silver
Flash- how many unexpected
Bursts of luminous [?]
Blind the eye, around the transept!
See the tapestries, how [flowery] florid!
Oh, what colors! Oh, what contracts!
And, upon the book-rests opened,
How the church grows white with missale!
See it stirs, the throng of people,
Moves and undulates and struggles,
Like the waters of a river
Which fill up their narrow channel,
Boiling, surging, seething  madly,
Till they over leap [beyond] their borders!
All things shine and gleam and glitter:
Silk of skirts of antique fashion,
And the canopies brocaded,
Gold of necklaces that glimmer,
The [?] of rich crimson,
And the broaches set with briliants,
And the velvet of dark prie-dieuxAnd the braidered and heraldie
Garments of the host of pages.
The procession now advances;
Slowly crass the thick wax torches;
All the censers now turn over,
And the smoke the air embroiders.
From the organ peal [?]
Heavenly harmonized; the crowd kneels;
Pass the bishops, pass the abbots;
From the [tall] belfry still the bell sounds,
Jubilant and never-tiring:
Restless ghosts, ye souls in trouble,
Come, the mass will soon be over!
Then the cock crew! [?] the dawn [rose] broke,
And the rain of orange blossoms
Disappeared amid the brightness
Of inviolate blue heavens.
And the breeze arrived, the herald,
He that wakes the birds from slumber,
He that scatters on the herbage
Handfuls bright of glittering diamonds.
All the visionary marvel
- Graceful work of gold and silver -
At one blow, sinks, falls, is broken,
Is effaced, is fled, is vanished,
Blotted out and brought to nothing.
On the broken rows of columns,

On the bent and twisted pillars,
On the shattered spires and needles,
In the aisles and their recesses,
Flashed and shone- made up of atoms
Restless, bright and scintillating-
Thin and subtle golden gauged,
Like light, filmy shawls in tatters.
10.
When the sun in heaven was tracing
His triumphed arches vivid
Back behind the darksome mountains
And the vapors of the landscape,
From the ruined church returning
[?] the sad, mysterious pilgrim.
In his hand the dry and knotty
staff he took to aid his journey, 
And amid the mists departed,
And was lost among the tree-trunks.
It was left alone, the ruin,
With its birds and with its blossoms.
On a night in chill December.
How did it befall? We know not!
11.
Tale of magic! simple story
Of the medieval ages!
You are like my life, the story
Of my love! Ah me, so many
Common histories are like you!
My romantic girl, look at me
Deeply; lit the sounds of diamond[Flash] [Gleam] Flash within your orbs of onyx [pupils]! 
Did you know it? Does it please you? 
Have I told it well? Then give me 
Both your hands - I fain would hold them 
For a moment, [but] just a moment! 
I am glad and proud and happy 
When you with your gaze applaud me.

Tell me, is it true, my lady, 
That your heart is all [in] a ruin[s], 
That it beats and throbs no longer, 
That the angels there have fallen, 
And that sometimes memories chant there - 
Birds still faithful to the ruin - 
And again the withered blossoms 
Of your tenderness reopen 
When upon your clouded memory 
Shines the sun of other ages?

My love came, the wonder-worker, 
[Necromancer] Wizard strong, the good magician, 
To that temple. Eve was falling, 
Evening with its gloom and sorrows. 
He approached it, sad and weary, 
For the journey had been painful; 
In the [middle] centre of the ruins 
Cried he, "Let the aisles rise newly, 
Let the tapers flame and glitter! 
Let the shrines be decorated! 
Heart, O heart, [now live] revive and pulsate! 
I am he whom you awaited; 
Love me!" See, in crowds arriving, 
Weary, and devoutly zealous, 
Come the ghosts, the troubled spirits, 
From their sepulchres arising: 
Hopes, ambitions, dreams and longings, 
The most noble and the richest, 
The most beautiful, the [greatest] grandest 
Fancies - these are the princesses - 
And the dreams, the youthful pages. 
Fair church! to the incantation 
Of my wishes, rise from ruin! 
Lo, my happiness invokes thee! 
Soon will day dawn - late the hour is -
And my love, the wonder-worker, 
Knocks and calls, and no one answers; 
And [the] he bends the knee, entreating - 
And the marvel does not follow!Fatal (or Ominous) Gifts.
From the Shamish of Salavador Mirou
Diary. 
Do not be proud, O palm tree,
Because you loftier grow
Than almond trees and laurels
Whose green tops wave below!
The tempest is approaching,
And when the bolt shall smite,
The foreheads least whlifted
Are safest from its might.

O rose flower, wax not haughty
For hue and scent divine, 
Because in field and garden 
You reign, and all outshine!
Beauty and scent betaken
Misfortune to a flower,
For hand will come to pluck you,
and insects to devour.

Sweet [flute of all the] flute, O songster 
[Songster with swelling chest!] You [???] your feathers fair
[Through] And jets of pearly music
[Gush from your feathered breast] Pour forth whom the air
Yet grow not vain of [singing] music
Be silent, [have a care] men may hear
Such trills [for] to birds that sing them
[The] Brings nets and hunter's [net prepare] near

Earth, envy not the Day-Star
From which your warmth is drawn,
That scatters gold and purple
At sunset and at dawn!
Magnificence so mighty
Is born of tortures might;
A conflagrations splendor
Doth give you life and light!
[Your aureole] How dear [???] buy, O spirit!
[How dearly it is bought!] Your aureole of flame!
[Talent you have, and glory;] Your true offence is only
[Save this, your crime is naught]That you have wit & fameBut Fortune leagues with [?]
To quench your glory's breath
'Neath falsehoods [p?l???k?] mountain
You perish [stou?d] to death

2 Sweet flute of all the forest,
Songster with swelling chest,
Though jets of pearly music
Gush from your feathered breast,
Yet grow not vain of singing
Be silent, have a care!
Such trills for birds that sing them
J WH papers
leaflet bill
vaseline
stamps
oil
Prof Wienir
basalt
(?)[Mrs. Howe's Letter]
[Seattle]
[Barnard      Aberdeen]
Western Federation
[Equality League headquarters
[Gold??n]     Oregon
Core Women
[Jewish Tribune]
[left o?rs]
[A??t B]
[Mr. Lellan]
Journal of Education
aged actress
[Yawcob Strauss]
Mrs: George
[Foroute]
[Mass??har?]
S [?] Pudden
S J Hauser
leafletsIll-Omened Gifts
By Salvador [Mirona] Diaz [?]

Do not be proud, O palm tree!
Because you loftier grow
Than almond trees and laurels, 
Whose green tops wave below.
The tempest is approaching, 
And when the bolt shall smite, 
 The foreheads least uplifted
are safest from its might

O rose flower, wax not haughty 
For hue and scent divine - 
Because in field and garden
You reign and all outshine!
Beauty and scent betoken
Misfortune to a flower, 
For hands will come to pluck you, 
And insects to devour

Sweet forest-flute, wild songster!
You preen your feathers fair, 
And jets of hearty music
You hour upon the air.
But grow not vain of music;


2
Be silent; men may hear.
Such trills, to birds that sing them, 
Bring nets and hunters near. 

Earth, envy not the Day-Star
From while your warmth is drawn –
That scatters gold and purple
At sunset and at dawn!
Magnificence so mighty
Is born of torture's might; 
A conflagration's splendor 
Doth give you life and light.

How dear you buy, O spirit, 
Your aureole of flame!
Your true offence is only
That you have wit and fame. 
But fortune leagues with envy
To quench your glory's breath;
'Neath falsehoods piled like mountains, 
You perish, stoned to death!Deep in the forest rises in the air
A twisted, mighty trunk, of
ancient race; 
A gray rock, huge and [f] hoary,
forms its base, 
And glorious foliage its
garment fair.
And when the trembling moonbeam 
pierces there
From the blue sky to that mysterious sequestered
place,
And finds its way, as if through
finest lace,
Through the green network of its
leafage rare, 

It is transformed into a cluster [fair] spare
Of vibrant cards of light that trembling
[mare?]
As 'neath a plectrum in the breeze's zephyr's hand. 
O vast harp of the fields, no bards are
there
To chant an answer to thy hymns with love, 
No ear thy giant verse  to understand!OF INTEREST TO WOMEN. 

The phenomenal progress of the women suffrage movement
in Europe continues. Now it is The Netherlands which comes 
forward with votes in commercial elections for all tax-payers 
over 25 years of age, men and women alike, and for all married 
women whose husbands are tax-payers. 

It is not generally known in America that women can vote
for the Parliament of the Kingdom of Bohemia. In the recent
election, the press reports say that the women cast an unusually
large vote. Several women had been nominated for Parliament, 
the first time that such a thing has happened in Middle 
Europe. None of them were elected, but it is said that they 
polled a very creditable vote. 

The officers of the National Woman Suffrage Association 
have invited all the suffragists in the country to set aside 
the first week in June as "Self Denial Week", and to deny themselves 
some luxury or undertake some service as a means of raising 
money for the woman suffrage cause. 

Secretary Taft has again declared himself in favor of woman 
suffrage. He has done this in several interviews during 
the last few years; but this time it attracts more attention 
because he is a candidate for the presidency. 

The International Woman Suffrage Alliance will hold its 
annual meeting in Amsterdam, Holland, June 15th. to 21st. inclusive. 
Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt, of New York, is President 
and Mrs. Rachel Foster Avery, of Philadelphia, the secretary. 
Other countries represented on the official board are Germany, 
England, France and Holland. 


It is the hour of love. Now silently
The [*sun, departing,  throws its last sad sheen*] is casting its last mournful sheen
Upon the lunar grove, [umbrageous?], green, 
& kiss divine from yonder [*sunset*] western sky. 
The fields with perfume [*fragrance*] breathe, with 
And music sigh
[*with*] the soul to reverie serene;
The meadow larle's sweet lute now guises
keen;
The heart is lulled by evening's
harmony. 

The orange groves their odors sweet &
strong
yield lavishly; the dewy blossoms
white
bright
[Open] Unfold their petals to the subtle breeze; 
Meanwhile the sun, inspires of 
my song, 
A monarch vanquished by the
coming night, 
His greatness hides behind the
western seas.OF INTEREST TO WOMAN.

The phenomenal progress of the woman suffrage movement
in Europe continues.  Now it is The Netherlands which comes
forward with votes in commercial elections for all tax-payers
over 25 years of age, men and women alike, and for all married
women whose husbands are tax-payers.

It is not generally known in America that women can vote
for the Parliament of the Kingdom of Bohemia. In the recent
election, the press reports say that the women cast an unusually
large vote. Several women had been nominated for Parliament,
the first time that such a thing has happened in Middle 
Europe. None of them were elected, but it is said that they 
polled a very creditable vote.

The officers of the National Woman Suffrage Association 
have invited all the suffragists in the country to set aside
the first week in June as "Self Denial Week", and to deny themselves
some luxury or undertake some service as a means of raising
money for the woman suffrage cause.

Secretary Taft has again declared himself in favor of woman
suffrage. He has done this in several interviews during
the last few years; but this time it attracts more attention
because he is candidate for the presidency.

The International Woman Suffrage Alliance will hold its
annual meeting in Amsterdam, Holland, June 15th. to 21st. inclusive.
Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt, of New York, is President
and Mrs. Rachel Foster Avery, of Philadelphia, the secretary.
Other countries represented on the official board are Germany,
England, France and Holland.


[solid] Two Mexican Sonnets
Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell
My Fountain. [?]lc
From the Spanish of the Mexican poet Luis
G. Ortiz.
Hard by the cottage, innocent and free, 
Where rocked my cradle - near that
hidden cot
Its ripples overflowing from their grot, 
Bursts forth my fountain, lost in greenery. 
When the new moon was mirrored radiantly
On its clear wave in that sequestered spot, 
How oft I cried, "Oh, happy is their lot
Who cross the vast expanses of the sea!"
It was God's will that I the deck should tread, 
[Amid the tossing billows of the sea]
And find my wish to full fruition grown, 
Amid the tossing billows of the sea. 
God in the sea I saw, and bowed my head; 
And now, upon the deep, I dream alone, 
My humble, sweet and murmurous fount, of
thee!
-13 cm
In the Night. [?]lc
From the Spanish of Joaquin Arcadio Pagaza, 
Bishop of Vera Cruz. 
It seems like noon, so bright the lustre shed
By Phoebe on the forest damp and low;  (over)The breeze scarce sways you oak-tree to and fro
[That wind a thousand others rears its head.
[O'er zempoala, on an [azure?] hed, 
] The evening star meets just [*ab*] above the snow, 
[Amol?] [*dimly*] Rain from his voice
Sadness + consolation from on high,
His voice sheds his eyes are moistly bright
his sapphire eyes are wet + bright
With dawn of life + presages of death
[Now] Lo, be flies upward, circling silent by
And [when at] be [?] changes, on reaching when be reaches
heaven's height
[Into] Into Only a prayer, a tear, a sighing
breath

Dawn breaks the bud of morning [silent by] rosy bright,
With her soft fingers, made of mist that 
shines,
Upon the hillside settles + reclines
A cloud, aerial porcelain, [far to see] frail + white
The plains are waking; [now beneath the] under [?] height
The valley quivers; and the bird divines mud the dewy vines,
The day, and sings: the rose her slup resigns [?]
The murmurous fountain laughs to greet the
light.
Now from then, fold unto you [grassy hill] swelling [well] hill
The snowy, frisking sheep show white, like hail,
The thorny bushes and low crags between,
And down the Easters peak, remotes so high + still
Rivers of light flow, snow [?] + prevail flooding rock & dale,
Till petrified in every deep ravine
To petrifyOut of the bosom of the cloud there breaks 
In dazzling whiteness, most intense & keen 
A cherub on whose forehead pure is seen 
The morning star, that quivers, gleams & 
shakes 
A star of brightest [light] 
[lustre radiance!] 
light, the world that wakes! 
A drop from the ethereal sea serene, 
Torrents of bliss it pours (sheds), with glorious sheen 
[Fusing] And of all discords harmony it makes. 
Fusing all [notes] tones into one (the) note of love 
Which it cleaves the air, [it spreads] and through[out] all 
space doth run 
E'en to the emyprean, lo! it rings [its  voice] 
The angel sounds his silver trump above 
And on his shoulders now the rising sun 
A mouth [all] rich of royal purple [*scarlet*] [flags?] 
Space is a sea of mingled fire & gold 
[And from] Out of its waves there rises [into si] up to sight 
A strong archangel, and his forehead bright 
Is like a meteor dazzling to behold. 
His gaze effulgent, glitters, [stron] clear & bold 
He spreads his [pimons?] with a sound 
of might

Angelus Domini 
[Othon?]

[The] Dawn breaks the bud of the 
morning 
With her fingers of luminous [*shining*] [*brilliant*] 
mist 
And on the side of [a] the hillock 
perches [*settles*] [*alights*] [*rests*] 
A cloud of aerial [*ethereal*] porcelain. 
Below the plains awaken. 
The valley quivers [*stirs*]; the [dra] 
The rose [dr] 
rose erects itself.
The earliest bird [*"madrugador"*] sings, and the 
murmurous [*rumurosa*] spring [*fountain*] laugh[t]s, whispering. 
From the fold to the [grassy] loma [*mound*] [*hillock*] [*swell*] 
Like [unto?] hail, the snowy [white] [white] sheep whiten [?], 
That are frolicking between 
the thorny bushes & the low crags 
[show?] [stately?]