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RED EARTH 
 
 Poems of New Mexico 
 
 ^^ 
 
 rii 
 
JAN -3 J92! 
 
After the roar^ after the fierce modern music 
 
 Of rivets and hammers and trams^ 
 
 After the shout of the giant 
 
 Youthful and brawling and strong 
 
 Building the cities of men^ 
 
 Here is the desert of silence^ 
 
 Blinking and blind in the sun — 
 
 An old^ old woman who mumbles her beads 
 
 And crumbles to stone. 
 
 [3] 
 
To E. B. McW. 
 
 [5] 
 
RED 
 EARTH 
 
 [foems or 
 ^J\ew)\[exico 
 mi 
 
 ^ -0 Alice Corbin H-w. 
 
 CHICAGO 
 RALPH PLETCHER SEYMOUR 
 
The majority of the poems in this book were first published in 
 Poetry, A Magazine of Verse. From the Stone Age was 
 printed in The New Republic; Trees anH Horses and 
 Bird-Song and Wire in The Dial; the others appear here 
 for the first time. 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1920 BY 
 RALPH FLETCHER SEYMOUR 
 
 [8] 
 
 Q)CI.A604872 
 
W 
 
 J^ CONTENTS 
 
 r^ Red Earth 13 
 
 El Rito de Santa Fe 13 
 
 ^^ Los CONQUISTADORES I4 
 
 'V Three Men Entered the Desert Alone. 15 
 
 <s^ A Song from Old Spain 17 
 
 "^ In the Sierras 17 
 
 In the Desert, I, II, III, IV, V" 19 
 
 Indian Songs 23 
 
 Listening: Buffalo Dance: Where 
 the Fight Was : The Wind : Courtship : 
 Fear: Parting. 
 
 Sand Paintings 26 
 
 Corn Grinding Song 27 
 
 The Green Corn Dance 29 
 
 Desert Drift 31 
 
 Spring: Dust-whorl: Trees and 
 Horses: Bird-song and Wire: The 
 Wrestler: Foot-hills: Waiting: Aft- 
 ernoon: Cactus: Stone-pine and 
 Stream: Shadow: Gold: Night: Des- 
 CANso: Pueblo: Double: Fiesta. 
 
 From the Stone Age 37 
 
 Candle-light and Sun 39 
 
 Candle-light: The Mask: Rain- 
 prayer: Fame: Sunlight. 
 
 The Eagle's Song 41 
 
 On the AcEguiA Madre 42 
 
 Pedro Montoya of Arroyo Hondo 43 
 
 Una Anciana Mexicana 44 
 
 Madre Maria 46 
 
 CuNDiYO 47 
 
 Manzanita 48 
 
 Chula la Manana 49 
 
 "Christ Is Born in Bethlehem" 50 
 
 [9] 
 
La Muerte de la Vieja ^l 
 
 Juan Quintana 5^ 
 
 Petrolino's Complaint ' 53 
 
 El Coyotito 54 
 
 Notes 57 
 
 [lo] 
 
RED EARTH 
 
 [11] 
 
RED EARTH 
 
 El Rito de Santa Fe 
 
 This valley is not ours, nor these mountains, 
 
 Nor the names we give them — they belong, 
 
 They, and this sweep of sun-washed air, 
 
 Desert and hill and crumbling earth. 
 
 To those who have lain here long years 
 
 And felt the soak of the sun 
 
 Through the red sand and crumbling rock, 
 
 Till even their bones were part of the sun-steeped 
 
 valley; 
 How many years we know not, nor what names 
 They gave to antelope, wolf, or bison. 
 To prairie dog or coyote. 
 To this hill where we stand, 
 Or the moon over your shoulder . . . 
 
 Let us build a monument to Time 
 
 That knows all, sees all, and contains all, 
 
 To whom these bones in the valley are even as we 
 
 are: 
 Even Time's monument would crumble 
 Before the face of Time, 
 And be as these white bones 
 Washed clean and bare by the sun . . . 
 
 [13] 
 
LOS CONQUISTADORES 
 
 What hills ^ what hills ^ my old true love? — Old Song 
 
 What hills are these against the sky, 
 What hills so far and cold^ 
 These are the hills we have come to find, 
 Seeking the yellow gold. 
 
 What hills, what hills so dark and still. 
 What hills so brown and^dry? 
 These are the hills of this desert land 
 Where you and I must die. 
 
 Oh, far away is gay Seville, 
 And far are the hills of home, 
 And far are the plains of old Castile 
 Beneath the blue sky's dome. 
 
 The bells will ring in fair Seville, 
 
 And folk go up and down. 
 
 And no one know where our bones are laid 
 
 In this desert old and brown. 
 
 What hills, what hills so dark and cold. 
 What hills against the sky"? 
 These are the last hills you shall see 
 Before you turn to die. 
 
 [14] 
 
THREE MEN ENTERED THE 
 DESERT ALONE 
 
 Three men entered the desert alone. 
 
 But one of them slept like a sack of stone 
 
 As the wagon toiled and plodded along, 
 
 And one of them sang a drinking song 
 
 He had heard at the bar of The Little Cyclone. 
 
 Then he too fell asleep at last, 
 
 While the third one felt his soul grow vast 
 
 As the circle of sand and alkali. 
 
 His soul extended and touched the sky. 
 
 His old life dropped as a dream that is past, 
 
 As the sand slipped off from the wagon wheel — 
 The shining sand from the band of steel, 
 While the far horizon widened and grew 
 Into something he dimly felt he knew, 
 And had always known, that had just come true. 
 
 His vision rested on ridges of sand, 
 
 And a far-off horseman who seemed to stand 
 
 On the edge of the world — in an orange glow 
 
 Rising to rose and a lavender tone. 
 
 With an early start in a turquoise band. 
 
 And his spirit sang like a taper slim. 
 
 As the slow wheels turned on the desert's rim 
 
 Through the wind-swept stretches of sand and sky; 
 
 He had entered the desert to hide and fly, 
 
 But the spell of the desert had entered him. 
 
 [15] 
 
Three men entered the desert alone. 
 
 One of them slept like a sack of stone, 
 
 One of them reached till he touched the sky. 
 
 The other one dreamed, while the hours went by, 
 
 Of a girl at the bar of The Little Cyclone. 
 
 [16] 
 
A SONG FROM OLD SPAIN 
 
 What song of mine will live? 
 
 On whose lips will the words be sung 
 
 Long years after I am forgotten — 
 
 A name blown between the hills 
 
 Where some goat-herd 
 
 Remembers my love and passion? 
 
 He will sing of your beauty and my love^ 
 
 Though it may be in another tongue, 
 
 To a strange tune, 
 
 In a country beyond the seas — 
 
 A seed blown by the wind — 
 
 He will sing of our love and passion. 
 
 In the Sierras 
 
 Do not bring me riches 
 From your store in the Andes 
 Do not bring me treasures 
 From deep ocean caves. 
 Bring me but yourself 
 And I'll gladly go with you, 
 Bring me but yourself. 
 And I will not be sorry. 
 
 Do not bring me patterns 
 Of silks or of satins, 
 Do not bring me silver 
 Or gold wrung from slaves. 
 Bring me but yourself, 
 And my heart will rest easy, 
 And your head will be light 
 With my breast as its pillow. 
 
 [17] 
 
Do not bring me servants 
 
 Or oxen or cattle, 
 
 Or sheep for the shearing 
 
 Or ships from the waves. 
 
 Bring me but yourself 
 
 For my share and my treasure, 
 
 Then our fortune will grow 
 
 And will never diminish. 
 
 [18] 
 
IN THE DESERT 
 
 I have seen you, O king of the dead, 
 More beautiful than sunlight. 
 
 Your kiss is like quicksilver; 
 But I turned my face aside 
 Lest you should touch my lips. 
 
 In the field with the flowers 
 You stood darkly. 
 
 My knees trembled, and I knew 
 That no other joy would be like this. 
 
 But the warm field, and the sunlight, 
 And the few years of my girlhood 
 Came before me, and I cried, 
 Not yet! 
 Not yet, O dark lover! 
 
 You were patient. 
 
 — I know you will come again. 
 
 I have seen you, O king of the dead. 
 More beautiful than sunlight. 
 
 II 
 
 Here in the desert, under the cottonwoods 
 
 That keep up a monotonous wind-murmur of leaves. 
 
 [19] 
 
I can hear the water dripping 
 Through the canals in Venice 
 From the oar of the gondola 
 Hugging the old palaces, 
 Beautiful old houses 
 Sinking quietly into decay. . . . 
 
 O sunlight — how many things you gild 
 
 With your eternal gold ! 
 
 Sunlight — and night — are everlasting. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Once every twenty-four hours 
 
 Earth has a moment of indecision : 
 
 Shall I go on? — 
 
 Shall I keep turning? — 
 
 Is it worth while? 
 
 Everything holds its breath. 
 
 The trees huddle anxiously 
 
 On the edge of the arroyo, 
 
 And then, with a tremendous heave. 
 
 Earth shoves the hours on towards dawn. 
 
 IV 
 
 Four o'clock in the afternoon. . . . 
 
 A stream of money is flowing down Fifth Avenue. 
 
 They speak of the fascination of New York 
 Climbing aboard motor-busses to look down on the 
 
 endless play 
 From the Bay to the Bronx. 
 But it is forever the same : 
 There is no life there. 
 
 [20] 
 
Watching a cloud on the desert, 
 
 Endlessly watching small insects crawling in and out 
 
 of the shadow of a cactus, 
 A herd-boy on the horizon driving goats. 
 Uninterrupted sky and blown sand: 
 Space — volume — silence — 
 Nothing but life on the desert. 
 Intense life. 
 
 The hill cedars and pinons 
 
 Point upward like flames. 
 
 Like smoke they are drawn upward 
 
 From the face of the mountains. 
 
 Over the sunbaked slopes, 
 
 Patches of sun-dried adobes straggle; 
 
 Willows along the acequias in the valley 
 
 Give cool streams of green; 
 
 Beyond, on the bare hillsides. 
 
 Yellow and red gashes and bleached white paths 
 
 Give foothold to the burros. 
 
 To the black-shawled Mexican girls 
 
 Who go for water. 
 
 [21] 
 
INDIAN SONGS 
 
 Listening 
 
 The noise of passing feet 
 
 On the prairie — 
 
 Is it men or gods 
 
 Who come out of the silence? 
 
 Buffalo Dance 
 
 Strike ye our land 
 With curved horns! 
 Now with cries 
 Bending our bodies, 
 Breathe fire upon us; 
 Now with feet 
 Trampling the earth, 
 Let your hoofs 
 Thunder over us! 
 Strike ye our land 
 With curved horns ! 
 
 Where the Fight Was 
 
 In the place where the fight was 
 
 Across the river, 
 
 In the place where the fight was 
 
 Across the river: 
 
 A heavy load for a woman 
 
 To lift in her blanket, 
 
 A heavy load for a woman 
 
 To carry on her shoulder. 
 
 In the place where the fight was 
 
 Across the river, 
 
 [23] 
 
In the place where the fight was 
 
 Across the river: 
 
 The women go wailing 
 
 To gather the wounded, 
 
 The women go wailing 
 
 To pick up the dead. 
 
 The Wind 
 
 The wind is carrying me round the sky; 
 The wind is carrying me round the sky. 
 My body is here in the valley — 
 The wind is carrying me round the sky. 
 
 Courtship 
 
 When I go I will give you surely 
 What you will wear if you go with me; 
 A blanket of red and a bright girdle, 
 Two new moccasins and a silver necklace. 
 When I go I will give you surely 
 What you will wear if you go with me I 
 
 Fear 
 
 The odor of death 
 In the front of my body. 
 The odor of death 
 Before me — 
 
 Is there any one 
 
 Who would weep for me? 
 
 My wife 
 
 Would weep for me. 
 
 [24] 
 
Parting 
 
 Now I go, do not weep, woman — 
 
 Woman, do not weep; 
 
 Though I go from you to die, 
 
 We shall both lie down 
 
 At the foot of the hill, and sleep. 
 
 Now I go, do not weep, woman — 
 
 Woman, do not weep; 
 
 Earth is our mother and our tent the sky. 
 
 Though I go from you to die. 
 
 We shall both lie down 
 
 At the foot of the hill, and sleep. 
 
 [25] 
 
SAND PAINTINGS 
 
 The dawn breeze 
 Loosens the leaves 
 Of the trees, 
 The wide sky quivers 
 With awakened birds. 
 
 Two blue runners 
 Come from the east, 
 One has a scarf of silver, 
 One flings pine-boughs 
 Across the sky. 
 
 Noon-day stretched 
 In gigantic slumber — 
 Red copper cliffs 
 Rigid in sunlight. 
 
 An old man stoops 
 For a forgotten faggot. 
 Forehead of bronze 
 Between white locks 
 Bound with a rag of scarlet. 
 
 Where one door stands open. 
 The female moon 
 Beckons to darkness 
 And disappears. 
 
 [26] 
 
CORN-GRINDING SONG 
 
 Tesuque Pueblo 
 
 This way from the north 
 
 Comes the cloud, 
 
 Very blue, 
 
 And inside the cloud is the blue com. 
 
 How beautiful the cloud 
 Bringing corn of blue color 1 
 
 This way from the west 
 
 Comes the cloud. 
 
 Very yellow. 
 
 And inside the cloud is the yellow corn. 
 
 How beautiful the cloud 
 Bringing corn of yellow color I 
 
 This way from the south 
 
 Comes the cloud, 
 
 Very red, 
 
 And inside the cloud is the red corn. 
 
 How beautiful the cloud 
 Bringing corn of red color! 
 
 This way from the east 
 
 Comes the cloud, 
 
 Very white. 
 
 And inside the cloud is the white com. 
 
 How beautiful the cloud 
 Bringing corn of white color! 
 
 [27] 
 
How beautiful the clouds 
 From the north and the west 
 From the south and the east 
 Bringing com of all colors I 
 
 From the Indian 
 
 [28] 
 
THE GREEN CORN DANCE 
 
 San Ildefonso 
 
 Far in the east 
 
 ^he gods beat 
 
 On thunder drums. . . 
 
 With rhythmic thud 
 The dancers' feet 
 Answer the beat 
 Of the thunder drums. 
 
 Eagle feather 
 On raven hair, 
 With bright tablita's 
 Turquoise glare. 
 
 Tasselled corn 
 Stands tall and fair 
 From rain-washed roots 
 Through lambent air. 
 
 Corn springs up 
 
 From the seed in the ground, 
 
 The cradled com 
 
 By the sun is found. 
 
 Eagle feather 
 And turkey plume 
 From the wind-swept cloud 
 Bring rain and gloom. 
 
 Hid in the cloud 
 The wind brings rain 
 And the water-song 
 To the dust-parched plain. 
 
 [29] 
 
Far in the east 
 The gods retreat 
 As the thunder drums 
 Grow small and sweet. 
 
 The dancers' feet 
 
 Echo the sound 
 
 As the drums grow faint 
 
 And the rain comes down. 
 
 [30] 
 
DESERT DRIFT 
 
 Spring 
 
 Spring has come 
 
 To the apricot boughs; 
 
 The cottonwoods 
 
 Fringe green on the branches. 
 
 Today the flood-gates are opened, 
 
 And thin streams loosed 
 
 From the high peaks of snow 
 
 To acequias in the valley. 
 
 Dust-whorl 
 
 The wind picks up a handful of dust, 
 
 And sets it down — 
 
 Faint spiral of lives 
 
 Lived long ago on the desert. 
 
 Trees and Horses 
 
 Trees stand motionless among themselves, 
 
 Some are solitary. 
 
 Horses wander over wide pastures; 
 
 At night they herd closely, 
 
 Rumps hunched to the wind. 
 
 Bird-song and Wire 
 
 The Rocky Mountain blue-bird 
 Is a point of blue fire ; 
 The meadow-lark 
 Sings above the hum 
 Of the telephone wire. 
 
 Straight and gaunt 
 The poles stand; 
 They walk stiffly 
 Over a thousand leagues 
 Of rough land. 
 
 [31] 
 
The Wrestler 
 
 The tired wind creeps down the canyon 
 
 At nightfall. 
 
 By day it turns and flings itself 
 
 Against the granite face of the mountains. 
 
 Foot-hills 
 
 New Mexico hills 
 
 Are spotted like lizards, 
 
 They sinuously glide and dissemble; 
 
 If you take a forked stick 
 
 You may catch one and hold it. 
 
 Waiting 
 
 More still than death 
 
 That waits a thousand years 
 
 In a new-ploughed field 
 
 Of up-turned bones; 
 
 So will I wait for you 
 
 A thousand years. 
 
 Afternoon 
 
 Earth tips to the west 
 
 And the hills lean backward — 
 
 Cedar-trees 
 
 Hugging the hillsides. 
 
 Smoke drifts in the valley — 
 The pinto sun 
 Nickers over the gate 
 Of the home corral. 
 
 [32] 
 
Cactus 
 
 The cactus scrawls crude hieroglyphs against the 
 
 sky; 
 It reaches with twisted, inquisitive fingers 
 To clutch the throat of something and question 
 
 Why. 
 
 Stone-pine and Stream 
 
 The stone-pine with green branches 
 
 Stands on the brink of the canyon, 
 
 The wind whispers in the tree — 
 
 The wind lifts my hair. 
 
 Water runs with a pattern of braided and woven 
 
 music 
 Through the stream in the canyon — 
 My body flows like water through the stream in the 
 
 canyon. 
 
 Shadow 
 
 A deep blue shadow falls 
 On the face of the mountain — 
 What great bird's wing 
 Has dropped a feather? 
 
 Gold 
 
 Gold is under these hills; 
 
 And the wind piles sand 
 
 Through the cracks of deserted cabins. 
 
 Gold chinked over the counters, 
 Gold poured into the glasses, 
 Gold flickered and flamed 
 In the spendthrift gleam 
 Of a woman's hair ... 
 
 Gold is under these hills. 
 Gold in the empty sunlight. 
 
 [33] 
 
Night 
 
 The night is dark, and die moon 
 Moves heavily, dragging a cross; 
 Penitent peaks drip, crowned with cactus ; 
 The wind whips itself mournfully 
 Through the arroyos. 
 
 Descanso 
 
 Beside this wooden cross 
 
 By the cross of the desert cactus. 
 
 The coffin-bearers rested: 
 
 "Pray for the soul 
 
 Of Manuel Rodriguez," 
 
 And remember 
 
 That death is the end of life. 
 
 Pueblo 
 
 The pueblo rises under the sun-bronzed noon 
 
 As if hammered out of copper ; 
 
 The sky's metallic blue 
 
 Rings in the silence. 
 
 Nothing moves but the shapes 
 
 That strain without changing. 
 
 Double 
 
 Who is this running with me 
 Whose shadow alone I see. 
 And at high noon hear only 
 The soft tread of his sandals'? 
 
 [34] 
 
Fiesta 
 
 The sun dances to the drums 
 With Cottonwood boughs 
 On head and ankles. 
 
 The moon steps softly 
 In a turquoise tablita. 
 
 The stars run to pick up 
 The eagle feathers 
 Dropped by the dancers. 
 
 [35] 
 
FROM THE STONE AGE 
 
 Long ago some one carved me in the semblance of 
 a god. 
 
 I have forgot now what god I was meant to repre- 
 sent, 
 
 I have no consciousness now but of stone, sunlight, 
 and rain; 
 
 The sun baking my skin of stone, the wind lifting 
 my hair: 
 
 The sun's light is hot upon me, 
 
 The moon's light is cool. 
 
 Casting a silver-laced pattern of light and dark 
 
 Over the planes of my body: 
 
 My thoughts now are the thoughts of a stone, 
 
 My substance now is the substance of life itself; 
 
 I have sunk deep into life as one sinks into sleep; 
 
 Life is above me, below me, around me. 
 
 Moving through my pores of stone — 
 
 It does not matter how small the space you pack 
 life in. 
 
 That space is as big as the universe — 
 
 Space, volume, and the overtone of volume 
 
 Move through me like chords of music. 
 
 Like the taste of happiness in the throat, 
 
 Which you fear to lose, though it may choke you — 
 
 (In the cities this is not known. 
 
 For space there is emptiness. 
 
 And time a torment) 
 
 Since I became a stone 
 
 I have no need to remember anything — 
 
 Everything is remembered for me; 
 
 I live and I think and I dream as a stone. 
 
 [37] 
 
In the warm sunlight, in the grey rain; 
 All my surfaces are touched to softness 
 By the light fingers of the wind, • 
 
 The slow dripping of rain: 
 My body retains only faintly the image 
 It was meant to represent, 
 I am more beautiful and less rigid, 
 I am a part of space. 
 Time has entered into me, 
 Life has passed through me — 
 What matter the name of the god I was meant to 
 represent*? 
 
 [38] 
 
CANDLE-LIGHT AND SUN 
 
 . Candle-light 
 
 It might have been me in the darkened room 
 
 With the shutters closed, 
 
 Lying straight and slim 
 
 In the shuttered dusk, 
 
 In the twilight dim: 
 
 Like a silken husk 
 
 When the corn is gone, 
 
 Life withdrawn; 
 
 I am living, and she is dead — 
 
 Or is it I who have died instead? 
 
 The Mask 
 
 Death is a beautiful white mask. 
 
 That slips over the face, when the moment comes, 
 
 To hide the happiness of the soul. 
 
 Rain-prayer 
 
 A broken ploughed field 
 
 In the driving rain, 
 
 Rain driven slant-wise 
 
 Over the plain. 
 
 I long for the rain. 
 
 The dull long rain. 
 
 For farmlands and ploughlands 
 
 And cornlands again. 
 
 O grey broken skies. 
 
 You were part of my pain ! 
 
 [39] 
 
Fame 
 Fame is an echo 
 Far off, remote — 
 But love is a sweetness 
 You taste in the throat, 
 Friendship a comfort 
 When twilight falls. 
 But fame is an echo 
 Through empty halls. 
 
 Sunlight 
 
 The sunlight is enough, 
 
 And the earth sucking life from the sun. 
 
 Horses in a wide field are a part of it. 
 
 Dappled and white and brown; 
 
 Trees are another kind of life. 
 
 Linked to us but not understood. 
 
 (Whoever can understand a horse or a tree 
 
 Can understand a star or a planet: 
 
 But one may feel things without understanding. 
 
 Or one may understand them through feeling.) 
 
 The simple light of the sun is enough. 
 
 One will never remember 
 
 A greater thing when one dies 
 
 Than sunlight falling aslant long rows of com, 
 
 Or rainy days heavy with grey sullen skies. 
 
 Not love, not the intense moment of passion, 
 
 Not birth, is as poignant 
 
 As the sudden flash that passes 
 
 Like light reflected in a mirror 
 
 From nature to us. 
 
 [40] 
 
THE EAGLE'S SONG 
 
 The eagle sings to the sea-gull, 
 "My eyes are blind with pain, 
 Peering into the sun's face, 
 As yours in the tossing main; 
 
 Yours are the depths of the sea, 
 Mine the fathomless sky. 
 Between us the tides of men 
 Who blossom, and fall, and die." 
 
 The eagle sings to the sea-gull, 
 "The world will toss and strain 
 Till the mountains march to the sea, 
 And the sea climbs back again." 
 
 The eagle sings to the sea-gull, 
 "The mountains wait and sleep." 
 And the sea-gull sings to the eagle 
 The old sing-song of the deep. 
 
 [41] 
 
ON THE ACEQUIA MADRE 
 
 Death has come to visit us today, 
 He is such a distinguished visitor 
 Everyone is overcome by his presence — 
 "Will you not sit down — take a chair ^" 
 
 But Death stands in the doorway, waiting to depart; 
 
 He lingers like a breath in the curtains. 
 
 The whole neighborhood comes to do him honor, 
 
 Women in black shawls and men in black sombreros 
 
 Sitting motionless against white-washed walls; 
 
 And the old man with the grey stubby beard 
 
 To whom death came, 
 
 Is stunned into silence. 
 
 Death is such a distinguished visitor. 
 
 Making even old flesh important. 
 
 But who now, I wonder, will take the old horse to 
 pasture*? 
 
 [42] 
 
PEDRO MONTOYA OF ARROYO HONDO 
 
 Pedro Montoya of Arroyo Hondo 
 Comes each day with his load of wood 
 Piled on two burros' backs, driving them down 
 Over the mesa to Santa Fe town. 
 
 He comes around by Arroyo Chamisa — 
 A small grey figure, as grey as his burros — 
 Down from the mountains, with cedar and pine 
 Girt about each of the burros with twine. 
 
 As patient as they are, he waits in the plaza 
 For someone who comes with an eye out for wood, 
 Then Pedro wakes up, like a bantam at dawn — 
 Si, Senor, si Senor — his wood is gone. 
 
 Pedro Montoya of Arroyo Hondo 
 Rides back on one burro and drives the other. 
 With a sack of blue corn-meal, tobacco and meat, 
 A bit to smoke and a bit to eat. 
 
 Pedro Montoya of Arroyo Hondo — 
 
 If I envied any, I'd envy him ! 
 
 With a burro to ride and a burro to drive, 
 
 There is hardly a man so rich alive. 
 
 [43] 
 
UNA ANCIANA MEXICANA 
 
 I've seen her pass with eyes upon the road — 
 
 An old bent woman in a bronze black shawl, 
 
 With skin as dried and wrinkled as a mummy's, 
 
 As brown as a cigar-box, and her voice 
 
 Like the low vibrant strings of a guitar. 
 
 And I have fancied from the girls about 
 
 What she was at their age, what they will be 
 
 When they are old as she. But now she sits 
 
 And smokes away each night till dawn comes round. 
 
 Thinking, beside the pinons' flame, of days 
 
 Long past and gone, when she was young — content 
 
 To be no longer young, her epic done : 
 
 For a woman has work and much to do, 
 
 And it's good at the last to know it's through. 
 
 And still have time to sit alone. 
 
 To have some time you can call your own. 
 
 It's good at the last to know your mind 
 
 And travel the paths that you traveled blind, 
 
 To see each turn and even make 
 
 Trips in the byways you did not take — 
 
 But that, por Dios^ is over and done. 
 
 It's pleasanter now in the way we've come; 
 
 It's good to smoke and none to say 
 
 What's to be done on the coming day. 
 
 No mouths to feed or coat to mend. 
 
 And none to call till the last long end. 
 
 Though one have sons and friends of one's own, 
 
 It's better at last to live alone. 
 
 For a man must think of food to buy. 
 
 And a woman's thoughts may be wild and high ; 
 
 But when she is young she must curb her pride, 
 
 And her heart is tamed for the child at her side. 
 
 [44] 
 
But when she is old her thoughts may go 
 Wherever they will, and none to know. 
 And night is the time to think and dream, 
 And not to get up with the dawn's first gleam; 
 Night is the time to laugh or weep, 
 And when dawn comes it is time to sleep . . 
 
 When it's all over and there's none to care, 
 I mean to be like her and take my share 
 Of comfort when the long day's done, 
 And smoke away the nights, and see the sun 
 Far off, a shrivelled orange in a sky gone black. 
 Through eyes that open inward and look back. 
 
 [«] 
 
MADRE MARIA 
 
 From the Spanish] 
 
 On the mountain Lucia 
 Was Madre Maria, 
 With book of gold. 
 Half was she reading, 
 Half praying and pleading 
 For sorrow foretold. 
 
 Came her son Jesus 
 To the mountain Lucia: 
 "What are you doing then, 
 Madre Maria?' 
 
 "Nor reading nor sleeping, 
 But dreaming a dream. 
 On Calvary's hill-top 
 Three crosses gleam, 
 Bare in the moonlight; 
 Your body on one 
 Nailed feet and hands, 
 O my dear little son I" 
 
 "Be it so, be it so, 
 O mi Madre Maria I" 
 
 Who says this prayer 
 
 ^hree times a day 
 
 Will find 'Heaven' s doors 
 
 Opened alway. 
 
 And Hell's doors shut 
 
 Forever and aye 
 
 Amen, Jesus! 
 
 [46] 
 
CUNDIYO 
 
 As I came down from Cundiyo, 
 Upon the road to Chimayo 
 
 I met three women walking; 
 Each held a sorrow to her breast, 
 And one of them a small cross pressed- 
 
 Three black-shawled women walking. 
 
 "Now why is it that you must go 
 Up the long road to Cundiyo"?" 
 
 The old one did the talking: 
 "I go to bless a dying son." 
 "And I a sweetheart never won." 
 
 Three women slowly walking. 
 
 The third one opened wide her shawl 
 And showed a new-born baby small 
 
 That slept without a sorrow : 
 "And I, in haste that we be wed — 
 Too late, too late, if he be dead! 
 
 The Padre comes tomorrow." 
 
 As I went up to Cundiyo, 
 
 In the grey dawn from Chimayo, 
 
 I met three women walking; 
 And over paths of sand and rocks 
 Were men who carried a long box — 
 
 Beside three women walking. 
 
 [47] 
 
I 
 
 MANZANITA 
 
 From the Spanish 
 
 Little red apple upon the tree, 
 
 If you are not in love, fall in love with me ! . . . 
 
 From me this night you shall not go. 
 
 Not till the dawn, when the first cocks crow. 
 
 [48] 
 
CHULA LA MANANA 
 
 From the Spanish 
 Pretty is the morning, 
 
 Pretty is the day. 
 When the moon comes up 
 It is light as day. 
 
 Fortune's wheel keeps turning! 
 
 Yes, Fortune has its ups and downs. 
 
 Fortune is a bubble. 
 It was all for a married woman 
 
 I had my trouble. 
 
 Fortune's wheel ke^j turning! 
 
 It was eight o'clock at the bridge, 
 And nine at Jesus Maria, 
 
 But before I could reach her door, 
 I was caught by her fat old tia! 
 
 Fortune's wheel keeps turning! 
 
 [49] 
 
"CHRIST IS BORN IN BETHLEHEM" 
 
 A New Mexico Nursery Rhyme 
 
 Crista nacio is what the rooster said, 
 
 And the hen said, Y^n Belen! 
 
 The goats were so curious that they said 
 
 Vamos a ver — let us go see! 
 
 But the wise old sheep said, 
 
 No es menester! — there's no need of it! 
 
 Cristo nacio 
 En Belen! 
 Vamos a ver — 
 No es menester! 
 
 [50] 
 
LA MUERTE DE LA VIEJA 
 
 There were four old women as old as she 
 Who knelt in the room where the sick one lay, 
 And the resador with his book of prayers 
 Who sat by her side all night to pray. 
 
 In the morning light her face was grey 
 As the ash that covered the embers still, 
 The black-shawled women had never stirred 
 And the old man's voice was hoarse and shrill. 
 
 The crucifix laid on her heaving breast 
 Moved with her harsh breath up and down, 
 And her mouth like a chicken's gaped for air 
 With a noise that the droning could not drown. 
 
 The sunlight poured through the open door 
 Where I stood and wondered how it could be 
 That the old, old woman with such great strength 
 Fought with the force we could not see. 
 
 As she had fought long years ago 
 Through child-bed pain, now her body thin 
 Strove to the last with the mid-wife Death, 
 Till silence ushered her new life in. 
 
 [51] 
 
JUAN QUINTANA 
 
 The goat-herd follows his flock* 
 Over the sandy plain, 
 And the goats nibble the rabbit-bush 
 Acrid with desert rain. 
 
 Old Juan Quintana's coat 
 
 Is a faded purple blue, 
 
 And his hat is a warm plum-brown, 
 
 And his trousers a tawny hue; 
 
 He is sunburnt like the hills, 
 And his eyes have a strange goat-look, 
 And when I came on him alone. 
 He suddenly quivered and shook. 
 
 Out in the hills all day, 
 The trees do funny things — 
 And a horse shaped like a man 
 Rose up from the ground on wings. 
 
 And a burro came and stood 
 
 With a cross, and preached to the flock, 
 
 While old Q'uintana sat 
 
 As cold as ice on a rock. 
 
 And sometimes the mountains move. 
 And the mesa turns about, 
 And Juan Quintana thinks he's lost, 
 Till a neighbor hears him shout. 
 
 And they say with a little laugh 
 That he isn't quite right, up here; 
 And they'll have to get a muchacho 
 To help with the flock next year. 
 
 [52] 
 
PETROLINO'S COMPLAINT 
 
 The old ways have changed since you walked here, 
 
 But worst of all is the way the people have 
 
 become. 
 
 They have no hearts, and their minds are like putty, 
 
 And if you ask for conversation, they might as 
 
 well be dumb! 
 
 Though I am old, and my sight is not good, 
 
 And I don't hear as well — muy verdad — as some. 
 
 With my stick I can walk faster than many. 
 
 And my mind travels faster than a man's with 
 no tongue I 
 
 The young have no thought for their elders. 
 
 Their ranches are now no bigger than your thumb, 
 
 The young men work in the mines in Colora'o, 
 Or they sit and warm their stomachs in the sun! 
 
 The girls spend their money on big hats and velvet. 
 But when they would marry, they haven't the 
 sum; 
 And the old songs and dances are forgotten. 
 
 As the Saints will be forgotten — if they go on as 
 they've begun! 
 
 I have gone looking through hillsides and canyons. 
 
 Through all the placitas where we used to run; 
 But the old ways have changed since you walked 
 here. 
 And a goat is more sociable than a man that is 
 dumb! 
 
 [53] 
 
EL COYOTITO 
 
 From the Spanish 
 When I left Hermosillo 
 
 My tears fell like rain, 
 But the little red flower 
 
 Consoled my pain. 
 
 I am like the coyote 
 
 That rolls them, and goes 
 Trotting off side-ways. 
 
 And nobody knows. 
 
 The green pine has fallen. 
 
 Where the doves used to pair; 
 Now the black one may find on returning 
 
 Little tow-heads with sandy hair! 
 
 The adobe is gone 
 
 Where my sword hung suspended; 
 Why worry — when everything's 
 
 At the last ended? 
 
 The adobe is gone 
 
 Where my mirror was bright, 
 And the small cedar tree 
 
 Is the rabbit's tonight. 
 
 The cactus is bare 
 
 Where the tunas were sweet; 
 No longer need you be jealous 
 
 Of the women I meet. 
 
 Friends, if you see her 
 
 In the hills up above. 
 Don't tell her that I am in prison — 
 
 For she is my love. 
 
 [54] 
 
NOTES 
 
NOTES 
 
 Page 23. Indian Songs: Based on the literal translations 
 made by Miss Frances Densmore. (Chippewa Music, 
 Bulletins 45 and 53, Bureau of American Ethnology.) 
 Indian poetry, in its most characteristic form, is at 
 the opposite pole from narrative or descriptive poetry, or 
 even from the usual occidental lyric, which gives a double 
 image, i. e., the original emotional stimulus through the 
 thought or emotion aroused by it. Indian poetry is seldom 
 self-conscious to this degree. It gives the naked image, 
 or symbol, which is itself the emotional stimulus. The 
 distinction is subtle, but one who would interpret or 
 translate Indian verse must perceive it. 
 
 Page 27. Corn-Grinding Song: This song was given me 
 by Canuto Suaza, a Tesuque Indian, who translated it 
 for me from the Tewa, in both Spanish and English. 
 My rendering is as direct as possible. 
 
 Page 29. The Green Corn Dance: The symbolism of 
 Indian dances, carried out in every detail of costume, 
 gesture, and song, takes such a hold upon the imagina- 
 tion that one becomes only half conscious of the dancers, 
 lost in that archetypal world of which the dance furnishes 
 a symbolic mirror. 
 
 Page 46. Madre Maria: From a Spanish version ob- 
 tained by Miss Barbara Freire-Marreco from an Indian 
 woman at the Santa Clara Pueblo. The Indians have 
 preserved many of the traditional and popular Spanish 
 New Mexico songs. This is an old song, probably 
 brought to New Mexico by the early Franciscans, other 
 versions of it having been found in South America. The 
 final stanza is obviously a local addition. 
 
 Pages 48, 50. Manzanita and the New Mexico Nursery 
 rhyme "Christ is Born in Bethlehem'^ were given me by 
 Mrs. N. Howard Thorp of Santa Fe. 
 
 Page 49. Chula la Mahana is a free translation of a 
 popular New Mexico song. (The word tia means aunt.) 
 There are many versions of this song in the southwest 
 and in old Mexico. 
 
 [57] 
 
Page 54. El Coyotito is from the Spanish version in Charles 
 F. Lummis' The Land of Poco Tiempo. Mr. Lummis 
 himself has made an excellent translation of the song, 
 but has left out, perhaps judiciously, some of the tang. 
 His translation, however, is fitted to the music accom- 
 panying the original song; while mine has created a new 
 rhythm. 
 
 [58] 
 
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