BLACKWELL FAMILY
ALICE STONE BLACKWELL

SUBJECT FILE

Spanish-American Poems - Translations
by Alice S. BlackwellAn Oblation
Jose Santos Chocano
Thou shouldst not love me as a man, into thy life
who enters
But love me rather a book that sinks into thine 
heart,
A book that with its glowing touch can bring they
wound a country
Or haply offers  thee a song to bid they grief
depart.
Yes, love me rather as a book (a soul which, clad
in letters,
Like some fantastic vision rises before thine eyes).
And it may be that thou will have a favorite page
within it, 
Speaking to thee of many things which are not, 'neath 
the skies.
Love me as thou mightst love a book, the work of sage
or poet,
A refuge for the flame in thee, that burns, though
none can know it,
And for thy fear of all that may befall hereafter, sweet;
A book of dreams and secret, the unknown future shaping;
A book that with a sudden wrench, out of thine hands
escaping,
Leaves all the scattered pages low-lying at they feet

The Voice of the Forest
Chocano

The virgin forest drapes her scenery
I'm mourning , when the sun
forsakes the skies
Then there is talk between the 
wind and leaves
kisses of love, wild creatures
calls and cries
We have a feeling of a far off den
Shadows are seen among the
boughs at play
And we divine a group of
wild men there
Around a fire that glows
with ruddy ray
The forest in her mourning
deep puts on
For crown the summer lightning
flashing gleamthat quivers in the darkness
of the sky
Until the sun, [with sly glance,] [beholds] that sees [v?] her, as twould seem,
[as] looks on her, [twoud] it would [behold her] seem
With [a] sly side glace, and melts, to crown her
[forehead, melts] brow,
His seven colors in a single
beam! 

Bolivar & Juarez
Chocano
262
I sing this ancient tree of the Aztec
mountain, full in ancestral days of
genii & monsters; and the winged
multitude of its dry leaves, that its
[century old] column, centuries old, lifts
into the air. I sing this old tree
with heroic scars, [that was] erect
[standing] amid the tumult of the
red banners; I sing the [bloody]
sweat of blood that bathes its roots,
and the wind of a hundred
years that passes flows through its
leaves.
It was the midnight of America
And the [chorus] choir of all our
heroes of gathered in a group. A
golden clarion grounded with2
imperious note, and another hero,
on whose temples the Sun had set
his seal, arrived, with [so] as much
[repose despite] tranquillity throughout this long course
if at each step [her] he had measured
a whole century.
[In] Amid this choir Bolivar
was the first, [hoisting] raising the rainbow
of his banner. One day he sprang
upon the rock that comes forth,
as if it were an arm, from
the wild majesty of angry
Tequendama, and he plucked
from the waters depths that
flying spark of which he made
the flag that soon in his 
daring, he planted upon the
rainbow snows of
[Aluimgorajo?] 

3
And [God] the divinity welcomed with joy
the arriving hero; [in his eyes he wore] on his temples he bore in the haunted cocoon thorns
[on] [upon his temples, in his eyes] of his eyes lightning, the lighting, the
[soft] [in the haunted caverns of his] gentle lightning of melancholy,
[eyes], and the everlasting weariness
of [vain] heroism spent in vain, in his
naked feet, that, passing the
[she] gloomy forest, had trodden
stones, brambles and stagnant
pools, and were still bleeding
as they entered into glory.
Who is this likeness of the
ancient race, worthy to be depicted placed
in the splendor of a war-medal
with his crushing mace in his
right hand, and the disc
of his leather [?] target in his left?6
He was like a tree-trunk that had
come alive in a blossoming of
heroic disillusionments; he was
the living chalice that had
[gathers] received the essence
filtered through the Indians
for 900 years.
He chanted the hymns sung
to the Sun by the imperious
must of Netzahualcoyotl: he
gathered the arrows, keen as
glances, that Quantlatahuatl
left sticking in 10,000 bodies;
he learned the phrase, without
protest or entreaty, [that] with which
Cuaultemoe placed his feet in
the fire; & should he dreamed of a country
that [was] be like a

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Zochipapalotl made of the
Sun and something of the moon.
Fate was stubborn, like
a wild horse that rears on
the edge of the abyss cavern; and, without
run, without spurs, grasping
the long thick, whistling mane, the
horseman of the centuries
is riding swiftly today. And
the rhythm of the hoofs
of that gallop strikes evokes out
sparks for his eyes, flowers
for his forehead. On the croup
he fastened the last arrow of
his race, and started thus
towards the ancient cactus
of the serpent. [Since] After the day[*8]
When he made the gates of glory turn
on their hinges, he returned to the 
solitudes; and forevermore upon
his steed of bronze, he still
rides swiftly through the forests,
to oversee the ages.
Juarez, thou hast not
finished. Juarez, hasten thee afar [to a
distance] from this sea of
Baboa, which is not bitter salt
in vain!
Thou seest now how the
Isthmus of Morgan aclaims [welcomes]
thee! The echoes of the volcanos
are the trumpets of they fame.
Ride, ride with speed, cross my
whole continent! I, poet of
the south, raise my song of 
praise to keep thee from going

[*9]
away toward my absent fatherland. On
the day when the Straits listen to
thy lips of bronze, we shall all
be strong, we shall all be great;
and, as in the dream of Bolivar,
the nations must then form
a chain, as do [the same] as [do] the Audes.Canto de Huelga
José Santos Chocano
Déjen[d]me descansar! No estoy vencido
Porque me siento grande en la batalla,
Me horroriza la tumba del olvido,
Y la musa se enferma cuando calla
Pero ya despera, y fatiga
La ansiedad de la turba que me acosa,
Y que, envuelto en la vórtice, me obliga
A cantar versos y á vivir en prosa...
¡Turba de maldición! Déjeme en calma
Soñar con el amor que me extasía...
Suya es la luz que brota de mi alma,
Pero la luz que entra á mi alma es mía!
Déjeme amar la libertad del campo,
El torrente glorioso, el manso arrullo,
El beso de pasión que imprime el lampo
En los tremulos labios del copullo...
Déjeme amar la cúspide fulgente,
El canto de la alondra matutina
La corona que el sol ciñe á la frente
Desmoranada de la aldea en ruina...
Déjeme, en fin, amar los vocingleros
Timbres del alba en el confin distante,


La Canción de las Tinieblas
José Santos [Cho] Chocano
Somos las protecteras del vicio y del tormento:
Amparamos el crimen que va á ser, es ó has sido:
Que se llama asechanza, golpeó ó remordimiento
Que busca el abandono, la fuga y el olvido.
Nosotros contemplamos hasta que raya el dia
Al jugador arqueándose en angustiosa espera,
Sacudiendo los dados con fúnebre alegria
Cual crótalos vivibrantes entre una calavera.
Nosotros, ya causa das de ver en los salones
El desvlado baile, solemos otras veces
Rondar á las parejas, que cambian sensaciones
Allá, en las pudorosas y ocultas lobrequeces..
Nosotros sorprendemos [ya causadas] al que, con manos seeas
Y ojillos avispados, tesoros acumula,
Minetras, haciendo extrañas y repugnantes
muecas,
Pesadamente duerme la roncadora Gula..
Nosotros, cual si el diablo nos diera con cola su
Giramos azotadas, mas locas de alegrias,
Alrededor del ebrio que se echa cual la ola
Y arroja sus espumas sobre las piedra frias.
Somos las protectoras del vicio que nos ama
Y del dolor sagrado que acaso nos detesta.2
El gorjeo de luz de los luceros
Y el ruido de alas de la sombra errante...
¡Déjeme en libertad! Turba menguada
La que opaca mi estrella con su estrella:
Fuera de ella para mí no hay nada,
Fuera de mi sí hay todo para ella!
¡Menguada turba! El estro soberano
Conquistar sabe triumpadoras palmas:
Si ella es un rio, mi alma es un oceano. 
En el que pueden desaguar mil almas!
Suya será mi voluntad entra,
Mi razón, mi ideal, mi ley, mi brío;
Pero déeme en cambio que siquiera
Pueda decir: --Mi corazón es mio!


2
No nos importa el nombre con que el dolor se llama;
Resignación que gime ú orgullo que protesta.
En un rincón á veces hallamos la herramienta
Que duerme las fatigas de la jornada dura;
Y á veces sorprendemos, con cara macilenta
Al tísico [la] trabajo pendiente en la costura.
Velamos siempre cantas el impacable lecho
Donde, soñando yace la virgen inocente; 
Soñado, entre ambas manos en cruz sobre
su pecho,
Quizás con la manzana, mas no [can] con 
la serpiente..
Sequimos al mendigo contando sus monedas
Hasta el hogar impuro donde el rencor se aboja;
Rencor que á la fortuna le quebrará la ruedas
El dia decisivo de la bandera roja!
Y acaso poseidas de insólita fierza,
En los dormidos templos, en los escuetos
claustros,
Y en las celdas obscuras, donde hasta
el viento reza.
Del pesar y del crimen á un tiempo protectoras,
Tenemos radiaciones de nitidos encantos,3
Caritativas luces, chispas consoladoras:
Si somos noche, estrellas: si somos dolor,
llantos!
Pero otra vida extraña y espléndida vivimos, 
Con luz que salta trémula ó lánguida reposa,
Cuando nos concentramos, cuando nos
refundimos
Entre los ojos negros de una mujer
hermosa!The Voice of the Forest
Always when the sun surrenders in his career [i.e. sets]
the virgin forest drapes her landscapes in mourning
and there are conversation of the wind in the 
foliage,
kisses of love and cries of wild animals.
There is a sense (a feeling 1 of a distant den: 
shadows are seen playing among the branches;
and we divine (guess at) a group of savages
around a glowing fire.
The forest in her deep mourning puts on
for a crown the blazing lightning flash
which beats its wing in the blackness of 
the sky,
until the sun, looking at her seeing her with a side glance,
meets, to crown her forehead,
seven colors in a single beam!1
The Voice of the Forest
Whenever the sun surrenders after its race,
The Virgin Forest throws crepe on its sceneries;
Addresses from the wind are heard in the 
foliage,
and love'x kisses and calls from ferocious
beasts.
We almost feel a den, there, far away;
We are shadows at play in the boughs.
And we guess a group of wild men
are around a blazing fire.
The forest in its deep mourning wears
a crown of glittering lightning,

2
which palpitates in the darkness of the sky.
Till the sun which has seen it on the sly,
Melts the seven colors of its rays
to make a crown for its brow.

José Santos ChocanoThey say Pomona where the tropics glowed
Passed through one day, on adventurous journey bound
And in that rich & fruitful zone [a vase] she found
A vase that with ambrosia [fragrance] [nectar] overflowed.
She tried it, & so great was her delight
It. [It] wears for age that blazon of [high] renown
For on its fragrant head she left her [royal] crown
Encrusting it as well with jewels bright. 
So the great fine apple stands today forth
Laden with [riches] diamonds & with rubies red [diamonds white]
Mid piercing leaves that guard its
honeyed hoards.
As if to warn audacious hands away
[With] By the [its] proud, royal crown upon its head
It fortifies itself mid fifty swordsThe Lark.
Jose Santos Chocano.

"O Romeo, go not yet away!" with love
Thus Juliet murmurs, 'mid the thinning dar,
And adds to that sweet call the tender words,
"'This not the lark!"

Lo, I have visited the heavenly nests,
Struck the bright harps to which the angels hark,
And pirced into the fair dream's horoscope -
'Tis not the lark.

I face to face have seen the golden star,
The prelude sweet I note by note could mark;
I journeyed through the heavens inch by inch -
'Tis not the lark.

The sacred chalice I have quaffed, and shared
The host, that wipes away earth's care and cark;
Beneath its golden dish I placed my soul -
'Tis not the lark.

And I have plucked the young bird from the egg,
The beauteous almond from its covering dark,
And from the lukewarm word the golden thought -
'Tis not the lark.

And I at last have flung free words abroad
Above the crowds, already hoarse with song,
That go forth following the new ideals,
The virgin Longings, eager, deep, and strong -

With all the flags for triumph now flung wide
Of Dawn Eternal, which dispels the dark;
Go, Romeo, go forth; there still is time.
It is the lar!Old Trees
Jose Santos Chocano

Even the old tree, fallen by the road,
That has no leaves, no fruit, no blossoms gay,
Can give a seat while shepherds may repose,
A staff to aid the pilgrim on his way.
So the old man, experienced and wise,
Gives maxims that ward off mishap and pain.
He, without perfume, sap or colors bright,
Fulfils his law, and does not live in vain.
O workman, listen and give heed to me?
[Thou shouldst] You should oppose as steadfastly as I
Cutting off boughs, though they be bare of
grace; (over)Because there may come forth from
some old tree
Perchance the cross on which a Clerist
shall die,
Perchance the gallows for a Judas base.


The Orchids
From the Spanish of the South American poet
Jose Santos Chocano. Rendered into English verse by
Alice Stone Blackwell.
Vases of crystal, airy beauties fair,
Whose enigmatic forms amaze the eye-
Crowns fit to dick Apollo's brow on high,
Adornments meet for halls of splendor rare!
They rise from knots in tree-trunks, stair o'er stair,
In sweet gradation
And twist their serpent stems till far and nigh
They hang beneath the branches' verdant sky
Like wingless birds that brighten all the air.

Lovely, like pensive heads, all fetterless,
Lofty and free they bud; by no dull chain
Their lives to any tyrant root are bound;
Because they too, at war with pettiness,
Desire to live, like spirits pure of stain,
Without one touch of contact with the ground.The  [?]*
Not the gay reed the was wont to play
Among the groves of Greece in days of old
Its voice is like a dying doves, this flute
That sounds by night among the Andes cold
The quenas low lament, how deep it is!
In the chill desert of the mountains high
It sheds abroad its long drawn melody
The calmer the more piercing, neath
the sky
Pearls of its tears it strews along the height
It sometimes, moaning mid those
wastes that freeze,
Sinks in a echoing jar its plaintive dole:
And then it seems, amid the tranquil night, 
Breathe of a soul that has become a breeze, 
Breathe of a breeze that has become a soul. 
*An Indian flute played in an earthen jar. 

Lightning.

Jose Chocano (Peru)

O ragged mother, holding out thine hand
Forever at the doors, in sorrow deep,
And seeing always bare and empty chests
And human consciences fast locked in sleep!

O thou that goest gathering in the bag
Of thy sore poverty forever more,
Leavings that in the shipwreck of each day,
Follies and vices cast upon the shore!

Daughter art thou to him who went to war,
Marched in the ranks and shed his blood unbought.
Sank down in battle, fell to earth and died -
And no one now remembers that he fought.

Sister art thou to him who fell one day
Among machinery's teeth, which crush and kill.
The wheels were all indifferent to his fate,
But human hearts were more indifferent still.

Thou wast the wife of him who at the plough
Died, sunstruck, as he labored on the plain.
Today all eay the bread his wheat has made,
Thou dost not eat it - and he sowed the grain!

Thou art the daughter and the sister poor -
The widow always left with child unborn.
Thou art the moter of every rag
Will make a flag, when breaks tomorrow's morn.

Still, as a consolation, in thy womb
A sun of thy dead husband thou dost bear.
A cloud of rage: its thoughts are of the sky -
But of a sky where tempest fills the air!

Thy son will be no gentle cherub fair,
No honey-cup, no Mayflower soft of bloom.
O ragged mother! Lo, thou art the cloud,
And thou dost bear the lightning in thy womb!
La Voz de la Selva
José Santos Chocano

Siempre que el sol se rinde en su [carrre] carrera
la virgen selva enluta sus paisajes;
y hay pláticas de viento en los follajes,
besos de amor y apóstrofes de fiera.

Se presiente lejana madriguera;
se ven sombras jugando en los ramajes;
y se adivina á un grupo de salvajes
al rededor de luminosa hoguera.

La selva ciñe en su profundo duelo
por corona el relámpago fulgente,
que el ala bate en el negrar del cielo,

¡ hasta que el sol, al verla de soslayo,
funde, para corona de su frente,
siete colores en un solo rayo!


La Quena

No la flauta del dios, alegre avena
del bosque griego, en que trinar solía:
es flauta cual paloma en agonía
la que en las noches de los Andes suena

¡ Cuán profundo lamento el de la quena!
La quena, en medio de la puna fría,
desenvuelve su larga melodía
más penetrante cuanto más serena.

Desgranando las perlas de su lloro,
á veces hunde el musical lamento
en el hueco de un cántaro sonoro;

y entonces finge, en la nocturna calma,
soplo del alma convertido en viento,
soplo del viento convertido en alma...PROUD PIETY.
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 laural of my forehead has grown out
of my breast. As God is every 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 tha 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 quenched 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 me one day in their mire' poor those
who insulted me before the indifference with which the pride of my
sadness beheld them; poor those who trembled at my more presence;
poor those who dragged in the dust even my poetry; poor those who
do not speak my name and keep it a secret, sounding in their consciousness
like an impeachment; 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


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 others, 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.LOS ANDES.

Cual se ve la escultórica serpiente
de Laoconte en mármoles desnudos,
los Andes trezan sus nerviosos nudos
en el cuerpo de todo un Continente.

Horror dantesco estremecer se siente
por sobre ese tropel de héroes membrudos,
que se alzan con graníticos escudos
y con cascos de plata refulgente.

La angustia de cada héroe es infinita,
porque quiere gritar, retiembla, salta,
se parte de dolor..., pero no grita;

y sólo deja, extático y sombrío,
rodar, desde su cúspide más alta,
la silenciosa lágrima de un río...


LA MAGNOLIA.

En el bosque, de aromas y de músocas lleno,
la magnolia florece delicada y ligera,
cual vellón que en las zarzas enredado estuviera
ó cual copo de espuma sobre lago sereno.

Es un ánfora digna de un artífice heleno,
un marmóreo prodigio de la Clásica Era;
y destaca su fina redondez á manera
de una dama que luce descotado su seno.

No se sabe si es perla, ni se sabe si es llanto.
Hay entre ella y la Luna cierta historia de encanto,
en la que una paloma pierde acaso la vida;

porque es pura y es blanca y es praciosa y es leve,
como un rayo de Luna que se cuaja en la nieve
ó como una paloma que se queda dormida...TO GLORIA
(From the Spanish of Rafael Cabrera of Mexico. Translated by
Alice Stone Blackwell)

If I am doomed to lose thee, and to hear thee
Bid me farewell, O maid that I adore!
Then would I die because I do not see thee,
Rather than see, and die forevermore!

For ardent love has fired me, since that evening 
Which died around us, wrapped in clouds of red,
When thine eyes left me blinded, and night found me
With its soft perfumes all about me shed,

Blessing the martyrdom thine eyes inflicted;
That evening when the flowery April went
Through thy green garden, opening the roses
And from each nest came sounds of sweet content.

Birds billed and cooed, and swelled out their soft feathers;
The gentle air signed tenderly and long,
And the pale gushing waters of the fountain
Sang in our ears their best and sweetest song.

Since then I long to be the light of heaven,
The light descending on thee from the hight;
To be the little sunbeam which at morning
Is eager to behold thy beauty bright.

And lingers on the green vine at thy window,
Waiting until thy casement shall unclose - 
To be the air, and play among thy tresses;
To be the sighs upon thy lips of rose;

To be whate'er with thy dark eyes thou seest,
That I might still behold mine image there.
I would be loneliness, would'st thou be lonely,
Would be whate'er thou dream'st of maiden fair.

That I might quench thy thirst for strange, wild fancies,
I would be what exists not 'neath the skies - 
Would be a bird, and sweetly sing forever
In the blue evening that surrounds thine eyes.CA CANCION DE LA HUELCA GENERAL
Mario Bravo (Argentina)
Como un mar resonante la multitud avanza,
la multitud avanza flameando sus pendones;parece
parece que latieran todas las rebeliones
en el coro del himno que invoca una esperanza.

Como una vasta nube que augura los ciclones
pasa la omnipotente multitud que descansa,
y en el clamor unánime que a los ámbitos lanza
cunde el pavor siniestro de las revoluciones.

Energía perpetua creadora y destructora,
pasa la muchadumbre destructora y creadora
con su fe, con su músculo, su estrofa, su bandera.

Y en tanto que el desfile las calles estremece,
enmudecen las pampas, la ciudad[a] enmudece
y hasta la vida misma se detiene y espera!


CANCION DEL AGUILA [y]Y DEL CONDOR

Levantaron su vuelo hacia el cénit profundo
al anuncio que llena de pavor la derrota,
y fueron hacia el límite de la altitude ignota
para no ver la tierra, para no ver el mundo!

El intrépido cóndor y el águila certera
en el silencio inmóvil del uniforme cielo,
frente al sol desplegaron su dominante vuelo
como el flamear triunfante de una marcial bandera.

Firmes ya ese imperio de inalcanzable altura,
los héroes expatriados del monte y la llanura
registraron con ávidas miradas el vacio.

Y cuál no fué su espanto en esa hora indecible,
al ver que [ar] atravesaba la [frontier] frontera imposible
el hombre, triunfador del misterio sombrio.CANCION DEL AGUILA yY  DEL CONDOR

Levantaron su vuelo hacia el cénit profundo
al anuncio que llena de pavor la derrota,
y fueron hacia el límite de la altitud ignota
para no ver la tierra, para no ver el mundo.

El intrépido cóndor y el águila certera
en el silencio inmóvil del uniforme cielo,
frente al sol desplegaron su dominante vuelo
como el flamear triunfante de una marcial bandera.

Firmes ya en ese imperio de inalcanzable altura,
los héroes expatriados del monte y la llanura
registraron con ávidas miradas el vacio.

Y cuál no fué su espanto en esa hora indecible,
al ver que [ar] atravesaba la [frontior] frontera imposible
el hombre, triunfador del misterio sombrio.


THE HOUSE ON THE MOUNTAN
[*By*] Julio Herrera[*y*] Reissig [* of Uruguay. Translated*]
[*from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell.*]

In atrident yellows laughs the vale; the sky laughs, free and fair,
An azure laugh; the dawn [in tints] a laugh of glowing strawberry hue[,]
Where grain laughs on the threshing-floor in gold and turquoise-blue,
With gay chromatic neighing exults a youthful mare.

In the ravine red blossoms bleed their laughter in our sight;
By sunshine cheered and bird-songs, laughs even a grave serene;
within the poor man's dwelling laughs the table fresh and clean;
And yonder on the peaks there shines eternal laughter white.

But no one laughs so merrily, so full of blithe delight,
As the hut that wears a jacket of sweet roses, red and bright,
with a hat of tiles, and prinks itself before the lake, in glee,
Who lives in it? We know not. Mysterious and shy,
Far from the world it sits there upon the mountain high,
And laughs in such a fashion that a girl [is] it seems to be!MY STAR
By Enrique Fernandex Granados, Translated from the Spanish by
Alice Stone Blackwell.

Behold, how bright the heavens!
Lift up thy lipid eyes;
Which is the star I worship?
Guess it, said the skies!

Not that with rays of azure,
Nor that with rays of red,
Nor that which seems bright tresses
Of dazzling gold to spread.

So white, so white that star is!
Whence [????] it? No one knows.
They say that from a lotus flower
Beside the Nile it rose.

Behold, the Easy 'tis leaving;
It nears us in the skies,
Dost see it? Ah, how sweet it smiles,
Bright shining in thine eyes!


Souls and Birds.

Manuel Gutierrez Najera

Souls take flight, so God has willed it;
Yet it is forever true
None attain the sky save only
Those that journey two by two.
Lost in space the others wander,
Errant souls, forlorn and dumb.
Of those sweethearts white, the lovers,
Dead or false will never come.
Seek, then; seek the tender woman
Who can heal thy wounded breast,
Bringing peace; when thou hast found her,
Build a nest!
Ah, how very wise the birds are!
Swiftly passes laughter vain;
And when laughter light is over
Then how dry our lips remain!
Dreams are powerless to soar upward
Or to show their splendors bright
Saving when two hearts for pinions
Bear them onward in their flight.
As the beauty seeks a mirror,
So the soul with anxious care
Seeks another soul beloved,
Mild and gentle, dear and fair -
And it cannot see its beauty
Till it is reflected there.
Restless hunter, roaming ever
Where the flowers their fragrance pour,
Know that loves are brief and transient
But Love lives forevermore!
Lacking it, sad looks the myrtle;
On the ground its leaves are shed;
But in May thou shalt behold it
Clad in clouds of glowing red
Lo, the doves with flight capricious,
Over hills and valleys roam,
Boasting freedom; but at nightfall
To the dovecote they come home.She Who Understands
Alfonsina Storni

Her dark head fallen forward in [on] her [breast] grief,
The beauteous woman kneels in 
suppliant fashion,
A woman past her youth: the dying
Christ

From the stern road looks on her
with compassion

A burden of vast/deep sadness in her eyes,
Beneath her breast a child, a burden human,
Before the white Christ [as he bleeds] bleeding there she prays:
"Lord, do not let my child be born
a woman!"


1 copy
Buenos Aires
Prose

Buenos Aires is a man who has
long legs, large hands and feet, and
a small head.

(A giant who is seated with
a river [at] on his right hand , with his huge
feet moving easily, [his glance] and [an] with an
indolent[.)] gaze.)

In his two eyes, mosaics of 
colors, are reflected the towers and
the splendors of European cities.

[Under] Beneath his feet are the traces,
still warm, of thee old struggles with 
bows and arrows.

Therefore when his nerves
[are on edge] trouble him, he feels that the dead
Indians are climbing up over his 
legs.

2

This wind that comes up from
the ground over his feet does
not harmonize with the European
mosaic [work] that he carries in
his large eyes.

Then his hard hands clinch
themselves, hesitate, tremble, held
as an equal distance from his 
head and his feet!

Silent is that [inward] internal struggle;
he is recuperating his strength; that
is why is eyes still gaze lazily.

But behind them, veiled, intelligence
is becoming defined, and now his
skull is growing larger, working
eagerly from within outward!

Like a woman with child,
do not trust the indolence of 
that man who is sitting with
the River Plata on his right.


3

See, he has on his lips a []
mischievous smile, and he embraces
the whole seacoast of America in
two sweeping glances.

Place your ear very close
to him; his arteries are throbbing:
ah, me! if some day his head
grows as large as his feet!LA CANCION DE LAS [PAEMASS?]
Esmeraldas rumorsas,
porciones del patrio suelo
que os levantais orgullosas
para besarm amorosas,
el gran zafiro del cielo;

Vosotras, las que mirasteis
caer el postrer soldado;
que, piadosas, lo arrullasteis,
y en pie, soberbias, quedasteis
sobre el campo ensangrentado;

En lenguaje misterioso,
_ya que tan alto subisteis_
contadle al azul radioso
el secreto doloroso
de la cancion que aprendisteis.

Decidle cuanta amargura
vuestro suave arrullo encierra
en su infinita dulzura,
y repetid en la altura
lo que oisteis en la tierra.

Que en el viento confundido
llego a vosotras un dia,
del primer cubano herido
el lamento dolorido
que repetis todáv[i]a.


A LALUNA

Oh, tu, la pensativa, l enamorada,
del jardin de los cielos flor de las flores,
incansable paloma, viajera palida
de la gondola negra. No me abandones,
amiga de los tristes; gota del alma
de Dios, que entre sus labios la reina Noche
guarda, como en un bucaro de azur y plata.
Mi eterna silenciosa, mis castellana,
del espacio en los lugubres corredores
oye de mis tristezas la serenata,
y haz que en la negra noche de los dolores
como blanco rocio caigan sus lagrimas
sobre las azucenas de mis amores.El Héroe

"¿ Que caer!? ¡ puede ser! mas imponente
en mi mudo reproche, iré á la tumba:
nací roca enemiga del torrente,
tú sabrás si el torrente me derrumba!

"Erguí mi mole y afilé mi diente
y el titán, que me odia, ruge, zumba,
[cl] culebrea, vacila en la pendiente
y me ensordece al fin con su balumba..

"Mas cuando pasa el aluvión inmenso,
Yo estoy de pie y tranquilo, porque pienso
que fuera insensatez, oh Dios que fraguas
contra cado opresión un heroismo,
ponerme como coto en el abismo
para hundirme después bajo su aguas."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?LA SIEMBRA.
Armando Rodriguez Portello.

Bajo un sol matinal de primavera
que de aúreos toques el follaje borda,
se abre la arada en la gentil prdera
junto al torrente bramador que asorda.

Se apoya el labrador en la mancera
del tosco arado, y con la yunta gorda
va esponjando la ubérrima ladera
que en negras floraciones se desborda.

Detrás regando la simiente, a pasos,
sobre la amelga de fecundos trazos,
va el fornida gañan de anchas espaldas,

mientras crusa los ámbilos sonoros
gárrula banda de fugaces loros
como un collar de verdes esmeraldes.


Upon the lovely Isle of Bimini
Blooms bright the joy of everlasting youth,
And golden larks their magic songs and trills
Pour fourth from happy hearts into the blue.

There slender flowers in rich profusion grow,
Like broad savannahs, covering the ground;
Passionate are the island's fragrances,
And deep and glorious its colors burn.

Gigantic palm-trees tower into the air,
And with their fronds they waft the flowers beneath
Soft shadow-kisses, coolness bland and sweet.

Upon the Isle of Bimini springs u
The loveliest fountain that the world contains;
Out of that dear and wondrous well flows forth
The precious water of eternal youth.

If of that water a few drops are shed
Upon a faded flower, it blooms anew,
And decks itself in beauty fresh and bright.
If on a withered branch some drops are cast,
It puts forth fresh new buds, grows green and fair.

And if a graybeard of that water drinks,
He straight grows young again; the aged man
Casts off his age, as insects in the spring
Cast off and throw away their Chrysalis.

And the good people stay in Bimini forevermore
In Biminin, for happiness and spring
Hold them fast bound within the Isle of Youth.

Out to the land of everlasting youth,
Out to the lovely Isle of Bimini.
Goes my desire, my longing evermore.
Farewell, dear friends, I bid you all farewell.

Oh, wondrous faith. Blue flower, long vanished now,
How glorious in human hearts you bloom
In the good time, the time of which we sing.BIMINI
From the German of Heinrich Heine.
Over the ocean of the fairy tales,
The blue sea of the legendary world,
Now my enchanted bark dream-furrows ploughs.

One happy morning, blooming like a bride,
Out of the sea's b.lue flood there rose to sight
An ocean marvel, an entire new world.

Bimini. At the sounds of thy sweet name
The heart within my bosom thrills once more,
And the dead dreams of youth awake anew.

O Muse, wide fairy of Parnassus mount.
Daughter of God, now aid me, bring me help.
Stand close beside me now, assist and guard
The magic of the poet's noble art.

Now sho forth all thy power of witchery,
And swiftly change my song into a boat,
A magic ship, a fleet, enchanted bark,
A bark to carry me to Bimini.Through the sea of the fairy-tale world
Through the blue oceans of fairyland ([?] fairy tale world)
My boat, my magic boat (enchanted skiff)
Faces its dream-like furrows

Opposite me (or ahead of me) in the undulating blue
A school of great headed dolphins splashes & capers

BIMINI
From the German by Heinrich Heine.
Over the ocean of the fairy tales,
The blue sea of the legendary world,
Now my enchanted bark dream-furrows ploughs.


One happy morning, blooming like a bride,
Out of the sea's blue flood there rose to sight
An ocean marvel, an entire new world.

Bimini! At the sound of thy sweet name
The heart within my bosom thrills once more,
And the dead dreams of youth awake anew.

O Muse, wise fairy of Parnassus mount!
Daughter of God, now aid me, bring me help.
Stand close beside me now, assist and guard
The magic of the poet's noble art.

Now show forth all thy power of witchery,
And [swiftly] quickly change my song into a boat,
A magic ship, a [fleet] swift, enchanted bark,
A bark to carry me to Bimini!


2
Upon the lovely Isle of Bimini
Blooms bright the joy of everlasting youth,
And golden larks their magic songs and trills
Pour forth the happy hearts into the blue.

There slender flowers in rich profusion grow,
Like broad savannahs, covering the ground;
Passionate are the island's fragrances,
And deep and glorious its colors burn.

Gigantic palm-trees tower into the air,
And with their fronds they waft the flowers beneath
Soft shadow-kisses, coolness bland and sweet.

Upon the Isle of Bimini springs up
The loveliest fountain that the world contains;
Out of that dead and wondrous well flows forth
The precious water of eternal youth.

If of that water a few drops are shed
Upon a faded flower, it blooms anew,
And decks itself in beauty fresh and bright.
If on a withered branch some drops are cast,
It puts forth fresh new buds, grows green and fair!

And it a graybeard of that water drinks,
He straight grows young again; the aged man
Casts off his age, as insects in the spring
Cast off and throw away their Chrysalis.

And the good people stay [in Bimini] forevermore
In Biminin, for happiness and spring
Holds them fast bound within the Isle of Youth.

Out of the land of everlasting youth,
Out to the lovely Isle of Bimini
Goes my desire, my longing evermore.
Farewell, dear friends, I bid you all farewell!

Oh, wondrous faith! Blue flower, long vanished now,
How glorious in human hearts you bloom
In the good time, the time of which we sing!From Heinrich Heines Poem
"Bimini"

Durch das Meer der Marchenwelt
Durch die blaue Marchenwelt[meer]
Zieht mein Schiff, mein Zauberschiff
Seine traumerischen Furchen.

Funkenstaubend, mir voran,
In dem wogenden Azur,
Platschert, tummelt sich ein Heer
Von gro[?]kopfign Delphinen-

Und auf ihre[?] Rucken reiten
Meine Wasserpostillione
Amoretten, die pausbackig
Auf bizarren Muschelhornern

Schallende Fanfaren blasen-

Eines Morgens, brautlich bluhend,
Tauchte aus des Ozeanes
Blauen Fluten ein Meerwunder,
Eine ganze neue Welt-

Bimini! bei deines Namens
Holden Klang, in meiner Brust
Bebt das HErz, und die verstorbnen
Jugendtraume, sie erwachen.

Hilf mir, Muse, kluge Bergfee
Des Parnasses, Gottestochter,
Steh mir bei jetzt und bewahre
Die Magie der edlen Dichtkunst-

Zeige, da[?] du hexen kannst,
Und verwandle flugs mein Lied
In ein Schiff, ein Zauberschiff,
Das mich bringt nach Bimini!

Auf der Insel Bimini
Bluht die ew'ge Fruhlingswonne,
Und die goldnen Lerchen jauchzen
Im Azur ihr Tirili.

Schlanke Blumen uberwuchern
Wie Savannen dort den [?]oden,
Leidenschaftlich sind die Dufte
Und die Farben uppig brennend.

Gro[?]e Palmenbaume ragen
Draus hervor, mit ihren Fachern
Wehen sie den [?]lumen unten
Schattenkusse, holde Kuhle.
CHINSEGUT - HILL
BROOKSVILLE
FLORIDA

Auf der Insel Bimini
Quillt die allerliebste Quelle;
Aus dem teuren Wunderborn
Fließt das Wasser der Verjüngung.

So man eine welke Blume
wenigen Netzet mit (etwelchen) Tropfen
Dieses wassers, blüht sie auf,
Und sie prangt in frischer Schöne.

So man ein verdorrtes Reis
einigen Netzet mit [etwelchen] Tropfen
Dieses wassers, treibt es Wieder
Neue Knospen, lieblich grünend.

Trinkt ein Greis von jenem Wasser,
Wird er wieder jung; das Alter
Wirft er von sich, wie ein Kafer
Abstreift seine Raupenhulle.

Und die guten Leutchen blieben
Immerdar in Bimini;
Glück und Lenz hielt sie gefesselt
In dem ew'gen Jugendlande...

[der Insel] Nach dem ew'gen Jugendlande,
Nach dem Eiland Bimini
Geht mein Sehnen und Verlangen;
Lebet wohl, ihr lieben Freunde!
[* X X X X X X *]
Wunderglaube! blaue Blume,
Die verschollen jetzt, wie prachtvoll
Blühte sie im Menschenherzen
Zu der Zeit, von der wir singen!CHINSEGUT - HILL
BROOKSVILLE
FLORIDA