Far away are mountains, swelling
Dark blue on a paler sky;
Whose faint quivering light is telling
That the sun has risen high.
Straight above, he draws unto him
All the splendor of the heaven;
Darting on the lonely pilgrim
Rays like redhot lances driven.
I would fly, I know not whither,
But to breathe one cooling breeze;
So far none can travel hither,
From the mountains or the seas;
But from yonder belt of wildwood,
Steals a sound to memory clear;
Thou art near, friend of my childhood,
Loved Guaili, I am here!
Thou art here, thou matchless river,
Free and fresh as thou wert then!
Still the open handed giver
Of the draught of life to men.
And I drain the brimming treasure
Of thy silver-rippling store;
Tasting the uncloying pleasure
That my boyhood knew, once more.
Still the same course thou art taking,
Round that ever-fixed rock,
Unsubdued by tempest breaking,
Undisturbed by earthquake shock;
To whose ledga still are cleaving
Ruins of that fortress vast;
Where I loved to wander, grieving
Over glories of the past.
Race whose hands, now still .forever,
Laid the wall and raised the dome;
Still as gaily runs the river
Past your unrecorded home.
Life and death fought here together,
And the victory was with death.
But free Nature asks not whether
She may draw her unchecked breath.
She has buried human sadness
Under lavish wealth of bloom;
Wreathing leaf and flower in gladness
Over the deserted tomb.
And that wild sweet music ringing
Breathes no echo of distress;
’Tis some hidden wood-bird, singing
But to tell his happiness.
What cares she for passing sorrow,
For the storm-cloud in the skies?
When on every bright to-morrow
In new joy the sun shall rise?
What cares she, if hearts are beating
Over hopes or cares or fears,
When fresh springs her steps are greeting
In the eternal eourse of years?
Man can never with his trying
Reproduce her wondrous forms;
Never, with her powers vieing,
Lend a beauty e’en to storms.
Let him then, his pains eschewing,
All his toil and efiort cease;
And submit, as I am doing,
To adore her work in peace.
Manuel María Madiedo (1815 - 1888) Colombia
Translated by Agnes Blake Poor
Source: Pan-American Poems An Anthology, Compiled by Agnes Blake Poor, The Girham Press, 1918
Dark blue on a paler sky;
Whose faint quivering light is telling
That the sun has risen high.
Straight above, he draws unto him
All the splendor of the heaven;
Darting on the lonely pilgrim
Rays like redhot lances driven.
I would fly, I know not whither,
But to breathe one cooling breeze;
So far none can travel hither,
From the mountains or the seas;
But from yonder belt of wildwood,
Steals a sound to memory clear;
Thou art near, friend of my childhood,
Loved Guaili, I am here!
 |
| Rio Guali, Colombia Source: Pinterest |
Thou art here, thou matchless river,
Free and fresh as thou wert then!
Still the open handed giver
Of the draught of life to men.
And I drain the brimming treasure
Of thy silver-rippling store;
Tasting the uncloying pleasure
That my boyhood knew, once more.
Still the same course thou art taking,
Round that ever-fixed rock,
Unsubdued by tempest breaking,
Undisturbed by earthquake shock;
To whose ledga still are cleaving
Ruins of that fortress vast;
Where I loved to wander, grieving
Over glories of the past.
Race whose hands, now still .forever,
Laid the wall and raised the dome;
Still as gaily runs the river
Past your unrecorded home.
Life and death fought here together,
And the victory was with death.
But free Nature asks not whether
She may draw her unchecked breath.
She has buried human sadness
Under lavish wealth of bloom;
Wreathing leaf and flower in gladness
Over the deserted tomb.
And that wild sweet music ringing
Breathes no echo of distress;
’Tis some hidden wood-bird, singing
But to tell his happiness.
What cares she for passing sorrow,
For the storm-cloud in the skies?
When on every bright to-morrow
In new joy the sun shall rise?
What cares she, if hearts are beating
Over hopes or cares or fears,
When fresh springs her steps are greeting
In the eternal eourse of years?
Man can never with his trying
Reproduce her wondrous forms;
Never, with her powers vieing,
Lend a beauty e’en to storms.
Let him then, his pains eschewing,
All his toil and efiort cease;
And submit, as I am doing,
To adore her work in peace.
Manuel María Madiedo (1815 - 1888) Colombia
Translated by Agnes Blake Poor
Source: Pan-American Poems An Anthology, Compiled by Agnes Blake Poor, The Girham Press, 1918
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