But they've all brought gods with them! Avaunt! Take them away, O djinn that paints the clouds and brings in the night in the rumble and clatter of the train cadences out of the past ... Did you not see how each saved a bit out of the banquet to take home and burn in quiet to his god? _Madrid, Caceres, Portugal_ III Three little harlots with artificial roses in their hair each at a window of a third-class coach on the train from Zafra to the fair. Too much powder and too much paint shining black hair. One sings to the clatter of wheels a swaying unending song that trails across the crimson slopes and the blue ranks of olives and the green ranks of vines. Three little harlots on the train from Zafra to the fair. The plowman drops the traces on the shambling oxen's backs turns his head and stares wistfully after the train. The mule-boy stops his mules shows his white teeth and shouts a word, then urges dejectedly the mules to the road again. The stout farmer on his horse straightens his broad felt hat, makes the horse leap, and waves grandiosely after the train. Is it that the queen Astarte strides across the fallow lands to fertilize the swelling grapes amid shrieking of her corybants? Too much powder and too much paint shining black hair. Three little harlots on the train from Zafra to the fair. _Sevilla--Merida_ IV My desires have gone a-hunting, circle through the fields and sniff along the hedges, hounds that have lost the scent. Outside, behind the white swirling patterns of coalsmoke, hunched fruit-trees slide by slowly pirouetting, and poplars and aspens on tiptoe peer over each other's shoulders at the long black rattling train; colts sniff and fling their heels in air across the dusty meadows, and the sun now and then looks with vague interest through the clouds at the blonde harvest mottled with poppies, and the Joseph's cloak of fields, neatly sewn together with hedges, that hides the grisly skeleton of the elemental earth. My mad desires circle through the fields and sniff along the hedges, hounds that have lost the scent. _Misto_ V VIRGEN DE LAS ANGUSTIAS The street is full of drums and shuffle of slow moving feet. Above the roofs in the shaking towers the bells yawn. The street is full of drums and shuffle of slow moving feet. The flanks of the houses glow with the warm glow of candles, and above the upturned faces, crowned, robed in a cone-shaped robe of vast dark folds glittering with gold, swaying on the necks of men, swaying with the strong throb of drums, haltingly she advances.