I have awakened in dark nights, and heard
The black gale beating at my trembling wall,
And yet not heard, but rather listened to
The foaming music of a waterfall
Somewhere in Mexico . . . and mirth we knew
In sleek, dark rain in silent foreign streets . . .
Above the rattling of my window pane
Has rung the cheer when matador defeats,
With mighty thrust, the panting, blood-stained bull.
Against the dark I see the lilting reds
Of crowding flowers' splendid life in lanes
Superb with crimson tones . . .
Secure in beds
Those who have been may ever lie in storm,
But never lie for long without a dream
Of blue and gold and trailing, fragile mist,
And sunshine falling heavy, like rich cream,
And that old tree that Cortez beat and kissed.