YOU have the loveliness of far-off hills; Yours is the charm of near familiar things; Under your skin of golden Spain there spills Red blood from Inca and from Quichua springs. Within your hair soft shadows make their home, Still mindful of their Orinoco glades; Spain's ancient diadem is but your comb; Your cheeks' camelia blossom never fades. Your neck is as the cobra's in its grace; Pearls rise and fall at home upon your breast; There is white slumber in your arms' embrace; Your heart is the volcano lain to rest. You walk to music of some vanished court; Your ankle crushes down the neck of kings; The condor's feather makes your fan in sport; Your rosary of gold outshines your rings. By turns an Inca goddess brave, or saint Of cloistered eyes, you love in fire and fear, Finding us as the mountain snows that faint Beneath the sun, yet faithful year on year. |