Here is the @3campo santo@1, The holy ground, The -- how you say? -- the cemetery. You know it by the many crosses, Straight and crooked, Plain, or fancy with carvings, But all crosses. I like much that tall one With the white dove sitting; And that with the little angel blue Is very nice, I think. My brother Juan made this one, So little by this so little grave. His knife is not so sharp Or he would make it better. But it is pretty, too, @3que no@1? The last baby of our house We put here. For her I bring these flowers. You like the real ones better? Yes, but so soon they wither. These of the paper, they stay so pretty Until the rain comes. And I have made them all with my own hands To give the baby. This baby, She was more of me than of her mother. Our house has many children And mother was too busy to watch to this one. I hold her always. And when she smiled, I saw it first -- I saw it first, too, when she was dead. Her name? But we don't put a name to her. The priest, he don't can come, And it is too far To go to Mora in the wagon When she is sick. But I -- I put a name to her myself. You don't think that makes wrong? I don't want to tell you The name. It means to me like an angel Riding in a cloud, soft, soft. I whispered it to brother Juan, And he -- he wrote it where no one can see, On the little cross. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VISION OF JUDGEMENT by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE ARAB TO HIS FAVORITE STEED by CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN NORTON A SPINNING SONG by JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL SONG TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY ON THE SUN COMING OUT IN THE AFTERNOON by HENRY DAVID THOREAU |