AS PANISH soldier passed this way,
Hot, tired, wretched;
His head was bare, his feet were sore,
And his breast-plate and his morion hung
Upon the beast he led.
He dipped up the sand with his hands,
He kicked it with his feet,—
And all the time he muttered,
“Oro, oro,—Nada, nada”
(Gold, gold,—there is no gold).
Hot and tired, he sat under the pines,
And from his haversack
He took his last Cuban orange,—
This at least was golden.
He sucked it dry,
And threw the skin and seeds away.
Then the Furies drove him forward,
And he tramped on, upon his way,
Bending his head down to look at the sand,
Kicking it with his feet, and grumbling as he walked,
“Nada, nada,—Oro, oro”
(Gold, gold,—there is no gold).
I came this way
Three hundred years after him, and more;
I was not looking for gold,—
I knew there was no gold here.
I was looking for the sky, and I found it.
I had escaped from my winter prison,
Where the sky is gray;
Here I found a home for my bride
Where the sky is blue.
Where the Spanish tramp had thrown away
The skin and seeds of his orange in the hummock,
There had grown a jungle of orange-trees.
I cut off the fragrant flowers
To take to my sweetheart,
To make a nosegay for our wedding
In her frozen prison.
By the hummock I made my home,
And here I brought my bride,
Away from her prison;
Here she lives with me, and here my children live,—
We do not live in prison.
I budded the orange-trees
With the shoots of other orange-blossoms,
Which my sweetheart brought from her prison.
I screened them from the sun;
I hoed away the weeds from around the roots,
And the buds grew,
And the trees grew,—you can see them,—
There—and there—and there!
Stranger, eat the fruit,
There is more than enough for all.
These are the true glories of the Hesperides;
For these Alcides sailed;
These are the true apples of gold.
My boys pick all the fruit which no one eats;
They send it North upon the rail,
To the poor wretches who live in the frozen prisons.
Stranger, here is the draft
Which those people in ice have sent for it.
Do you understand the writing, stranger?
I shall give it to my wife here.
It means that her golden fruit has brought her
What the Spanish tramp did not find.
She is my Danae,
And it will fill her lap with gold.
Hot, tired, wretched;
His head was bare, his feet were sore,
And his breast-plate and his morion hung
Upon the beast he led.
He dipped up the sand with his hands,
He kicked it with his feet,—
And all the time he muttered,
“Oro, oro,—Nada, nada”
(Gold, gold,—there is no gold).
Hot and tired, he sat under the pines,
And from his haversack
He took his last Cuban orange,—
This at least was golden.
He sucked it dry,
And threw the skin and seeds away.
Then the Furies drove him forward,
And he tramped on, upon his way,
Bending his head down to look at the sand,
Kicking it with his feet, and grumbling as he walked,
“Nada, nada,—Oro, oro”
(Gold, gold,—there is no gold).
I came this way
Three hundred years after him, and more;
I was not looking for gold,—
I knew there was no gold here.
I was looking for the sky, and I found it.
I had escaped from my winter prison,
Where the sky is gray;
Here I found a home for my bride
Where the sky is blue.
Where the Spanish tramp had thrown away
The skin and seeds of his orange in the hummock,
There had grown a jungle of orange-trees.
I cut off the fragrant flowers
To take to my sweetheart,
To make a nosegay for our wedding
In her frozen prison.
By the hummock I made my home,
And here I brought my bride,
Away from her prison;
Here she lives with me, and here my children live,—
We do not live in prison.
I budded the orange-trees
With the shoots of other orange-blossoms,
Which my sweetheart brought from her prison.
I screened them from the sun;
I hoed away the weeds from around the roots,
And the buds grew,
And the trees grew,—you can see them,—
There—and there—and there!
Stranger, eat the fruit,
There is more than enough for all.
These are the true glories of the Hesperides;
For these Alcides sailed;
These are the true apples of gold.
My boys pick all the fruit which no one eats;
They send it North upon the rail,
To the poor wretches who live in the frozen prisons.
Stranger, here is the draft
Which those people in ice have sent for it.
Do you understand the writing, stranger?
I shall give it to my wife here.
It means that her golden fruit has brought her
What the Spanish tramp did not find.
She is my Danae,
And it will fill her lap with gold.