I saw his young Anglo-Saxon form In its white sailor clothes Cleave through the scampering yellow Latin crowd, As white and clean as the blade of an archangel; And, as he reeled along, gloriously drunk, Those little black and gold dung beetles Seemed to be pushing and racing over his body. DON QUIXOTE SOJOURNS IN RIO DE JANEIRO White roses climb the wall of night. A pale face looks from a window in the sky. O Moon, is it because you have seen her that you are beautiful? Is she happy among the saints? I placed white flowers in the coffin. Are they the blossoms that lie scattered along the horizon, Tangled in your light? Dim stars drop into the sea. So you give my flowers back to me, do you, Bella Dona? I might gather the petals and carry them to Antonietta to trim her hats. So much for life with a little negro milliner In the Rua Chile! CONVENT MUSINGS Eleven thousand white-faced virgins in the sky. The eyes of Our Lady Smiling through a rift of cloud. I see Sister Maria da Gloria's fat shadow Pass across the whitewashed wall by the window.... Eleven thousand white-faced virgins-- Stars from a broken rosary-- The Southern Cross-- Thrum, thrum, my fingers on the bench. I sometimes think of God As an enormous emptiness Into which we must all enter at last, Our Lady forgive me. GUITARRA "An orange tree without fruit, So am I without loves," His heavy lidded eyes sang up to her. Her glance dropped on her golden globe of breast, And on the baby. NOVEMBER Foreign sailors in the streets Are as sad a sight as wild geese in the winter-- There was one boy with those strange young blue eyes Who looked at me; And a long, long time after he had passed The light of his soul got to me-- So long on the way-- Like the light of a dead star. What makes you look so lonesome, Blue Eyes? THE COMING OF CHRIST THE DEATH OF COLUMBINE DUET Pierrot sings. The moon, a clown like himself, Stares down upon him With vacuous tenderness. For a moment the night is filled with rice powder And spangled gauze. Then two shades embracing each other Find in their arms Only the darkness. FROM A MAN DYING ON A CROSS The pains in my palms are threads of sightless fire Drawn like fiery veins through blackened marble walls, Crashing with a dull roar To the ends of the earth. Winey peace.... My sick blood purrs. Milky bosoms float through red hair, Gaunt faces and sick eyes Beside her face. I debauch them with my forgiveness. Only her, I cannot forgive. Moonlight trembles as the silk of her garment, Perfumed silk. The cross makes a long harsh shadow Rigid on the sand. Her white feet stir across the shadow. LAGNIAPPE You in the quiet garden, You with the death sweet smile, Before you speak of love to me Go out and hate awhile.