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A gray mist is creeping
Out of the north
With the stealth of an Indian's hound.

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Helen pulo,

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The jasmine flower upon my breast
Is an insistent word,
But patiently my stubborn heart
Pretends it has not heard.


Orchid, elfin orchid,
Made of purple air,

Yours is wistful silence,
Hard to bear.

Were he here, my lover,
Wiser far than I,

We should hear your beauty
Sing and sigh.


Oh, cut me reeds to blow upon,
Or gather me a star,

But leave the sultry passion-flowers
Growing where they are.

I fear their sombre yellow deeps,
Their whirling fringe of black,

And he who gives a passion-flower
Always asks it back.

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You would not keep me near you,
You could not hold me far,

And now it does not matter
Where you are.

My heart has long forgotten
The ardent words you said,
But not the great stars blazing



The cactus candelabra
Are lit with yellow flowers:

Oh, take my jocund mornings,
My glancing April hours!

Do you not know the desert
Is slow to bloom again?—

The trail is long to April,
Across an arid plain;

And it is but a moment—
The time of cactus flowers.

Before the dusty journey,
Come share my April hours!


Is it long to Orizaba?
Have I far to go?
When I ask the carrier-pigeons,
They don't know.

There's a mountain I am seeking,
Feathered all with snow.

When I ask the valley orchids,
They don't know.

Like an orchid pale and folded, * Like a snowy bird,

That's the mountain I am seeking:

Have you heard?

You can see it on the sunrise
When the clear winds blow.

Is it far to Orizaba,
Do you know?


I climb the sacred hillside
Up through the evening blue:

The ancient steps are silvered
By starlight and the dew.

And if the gray church vanish,
My soul may worship still,

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