Something more than the lilt of the strain, Something more than the touch of the lute; For the voice of the minstrel is vain, If the heart of the minstrel is mute.
Collection:
Poetry
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Unmoored, unmanned, unheeded on the deep— Tossed by the restless billow and the breeze, It drifts o’er sultry leagues of tropic seas, Where long Pacific surges swell and sweep. When pale-faced stars their silent watches keep, From their far rhythmic spheres, the Pleiades, In calm beatitude and...
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Tinged with the blood of Aztec lands, Sphinx-like, the tawny herdsman stands, A coiled reata in his hands. Devoid of hope, devoid of fear, Half brigand and half cavalier,— This helot, with imperial grace, Wears ever on his tawny face A sad, defiant look of pain. Left by the fierce iconoclast A...
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Don juan has ever the grand old air, As he greets me with courtly grace; Like a crown of glory the snow-white hair That halos his swarthy face; And he says, with a courtesy rare and fine, As he ushers me in at the door, “Panchita mia will bring us the wine, And the casa is yours, señor.” His...
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He crawls along the mountain walls, From whence the severed river falls; Its seething waters writhe and twist, Then leap, and crumble into mist. Midway between two boundless seas, Prone on a ragged reef he lies; Above him bend the shoreless skies, While helpless, on his bended knees, Into that...
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Something more than the lilt of the strain, Something more than the touch of the lute; For the voice of the minstrel is vain, If the heart of the minstrel is mute.