RUBÉN DARÍO
(1867-1916)

...the leading modernist poet of his day in Spanish, was born at León, Nicaragua. He devoted his early life to journalism in various parts of South America. Later he took up his residence at Madrid where he greatly influenced the writers of his generation. His principal publications are Azul (1888), Prosas profanas, and Cantos de vida y esperanza (1896), El canto errante (1907). Darío returned to León shortly before his death there.




NIGHTFALL IN THE TROPICS

Where is twilight grey and gloomy
Where the sea its velvet trails;
Out across the heavens roomy
Draw the veils.

Bitter and sonorous rises
The complaint from out the deeps,
And the wave the wind surprises
Weeps.

Viols there amid the gloaming
Hail the sun that dies,
And the white spray in its foaming
"Miserere" sighs.

Harmony the heavens embraces,
And the breeze is lifting free
To the chanting of the races
Of the sea.

Clarions of horizons calling
Strike a symphony most rare,
As if mountain voices calling
Vibrate there.

As though dread, unseen, were waking,
As though awesome echoes bore
On the distant breeze's quaking
The lion's roar.







PRIMAVERAL

Now is come the month of roses!
To the woods my verse has flown
Gathering fragrance and honey
From the blossoms newly blown.
Beloved, come to the forest,
The woodland shall be our shrine
Scented with the holy perfume
Of the laurel and the vine.
From tree-top to tree-top flitting
The birds greet you with sweet lay,
Finding joyance in your beauty
Fairer than the birth of day;
And the haughty oaks and hemlocks
Bend their leafy branches green
Forming rustling, regal arches
For the passage of a queen.
All is perfume, song and radiance;
Flowers open and birds sing:
O Beloved, 'tis the season
Of the Spring!

Flowing from a haunted cavern
Is a crystal fountain where
Naiads nude and flower-breasted
Bathe and play and freight the air
With the joyance of their laughter
And the gladness of the wave
When they stoop over the fountain
And their tresses'gin to lave.
And they know the hymns of Eros
That in lovely Grecian tongue
Pan one day made in the forest
In the glorious age of song.
Sweetest, of that glorious hymnal
I shall choose the fairest phrase
To enrich with ancient music
The full cadence of my lays.
Sweet as sweetest Grecian honey
Will my song be when I sing,
O Beloved, in the season
Of the Spring!






SONATINA

The princess mourns -- Why is the Princess sighing?
Why from her lips are song and laughter dying?
Why does she droop upon her chair of gold?
Hushed is the music of her royal bower;
Beside her in a vase; a single flower
Swoons and forgets its petals to unfold.

The fool in scarlet pirouettes and flatters,
Within the hall the silly dueña chatters;
Without, the peacock's regal plumage gleams.
The Princess heeds them not; her thoughts are veering
Out through the gates of Dawn, past sight and hearing,
Where she pursues the phantoms of her dreams.

Is it a dream of China that allures her,
Or far Galconda's ruler who conjures her
But to unveil the laughter of her eyes?--
He of the island realms of fragrant roses,
Whose treasure flashing diamond hoards discloses,
And pearls of Ormuz, rich beyond surmise?

Alas! The Princess longs to be a swallow,
To be a butterfly, to soar, to follow
The ray of light that climbs into the sun;
To greet the lilies, lost in Springtime wonder,
To ride upon the wind, to hear the thunder
Of ocean waves where monstrous billows run.

Her silver distaff fallen in disfavor,
Her magic globe shorn of its magic savor,
The swans that drift like snow across the lake,
The lotus in the garden pool -- are mourning;
The dahlias and the jasmin flowers adorning
The palace gardens, sorrow for her sake.

Poor little captive of the blue-eyed glances!
A hundred negroes with a hundred lances,
A hound, a sleepless dragon, guard her gates.
There in the marble of her palace prison
The little Princess of the roving vision,
Caught in her gold and gauzes, dreams and waits.

"Oh" (sighs the Princess), "Oh, to leave behind me
My marble cage, the golden chains that bind me,
The empty chrysalis the moth forsakes!
To fly to where a fairy Prince is dwelling--
O radiant vision past all mortal telling,
Brighter than April, or the day that breaks!"

"Hush, little Princess," whispers the good fairy,
"With sword and goshawk; on his charger airy,
The Prince draws near -- the lover without blame.
Upon his wingéd steed the Prince is fleeting,
The conqueror of Death, to bring you greeting,
And with his kiss to touch your lips to flame!"