Chapter I: Am Running

I am running a swift race:
My body is painted with the symbols of swiftness;
In my hair are the plumes of swift-flying birds;
Tight-clasped, I hold in my hand a charm.

Who is he who is running beside me?
His shadow is purple and very angry;
His shadow is very swift;
I dare not look about.

Something scarlet is bobbing before my eyes----
Something which I should remember....
Is it a beautiful flower?
Or is it ... something which I should remember?

The goal is a gleaming mountain:
Before I can touch it
I must cross a dark canyon,
I must cross the purple shadows of deep earth.

_I would look upward, with open eyes, singing!_
]

THE LAST SONG

Let it be beautiful
when I sing the last song----
Let it be day!

I would stand upon my two feet,
singing!
I would look upward with open eyes,
singing!

I would have the winds to envelope my body;
I would have the sun to shine upon my body;
The whole world I would have to make music with me!

Let it be beautiful
when thou wouldst slay me, O Shining One!
Let it be day
when I sing the last song!

THE DREAMS ARE WALKING

The Dreams are walking, walking,
The Dreams are walking beside me----
Ah hay ay, hay ay ay ay ay....
I hear them rustling the withered grasses,
I hear them stirring the fallen leaves----
Ah hay ay, ay ay ay ay....

Very faint are their footfalls,
Very soft are their whispering voices----
Ah hay ay, hay ay ay ay ay....
All their touches are caresses----
Ah hay ay, ay ay ay ay....

O come to me, touch me with tenderness!
O come to me when my heart is desolate!
Ah hay ay, hay ay ay ay ay....
Come walking beside me,
Come walking in beauty----
Ah hay ay, ay ay ay ay....

IV

THE RED APOCALYPSE

THE SERRIED ROCKIES

Great Shields brunting the plain, motionless:
The red Warriors peer over them stonily.

The lances of Morning are flung aloft!
The Plains rise up with a fierce cry----
The Tribes of the Dawn are exultant!

Great Shields brunting the plain, purple after the day:
The dark Warriors peer over them grimly.

THE MUMMY (Estes Park)

In the time of the First Race,
In the time of the Giants,
In the time of the Earth-Shapers,----

Their axes were flakes of cliffs,
Their mallets were the knobs of mountains,
The great rocks roared with the sound of their handiwork,----

He was a Chieftain among them,
He was their First Counsellor,
He was the Master Builder when they upreared mighty hills and clave
the deep valleys....

For the place of his Mummy they hewed the crested Earth,
For the sarcophagus of his Mummy they established a Mountain,
In the days when his work was completed, he, the First Counsellor!

Above the changing clouds they raised him high;
They set his face to the eternal blue;
His eyes they set to the westering Sun....

What is it that thou dost behold, O Chieftain of the Earth-Shapers?
What is it that thou dost look upon within the mirror of the skies?
With thy stony eyes, what is it that thou dost see--forever?

Men are, and they are not;
Tribes are, and they are not;
Nations are, and they are not,----

Beyond the cycles of the years,
Beyond the portals of time,
What is it that thou dost behold, with stony eyes, with unchanging
heart?

Immutable, thou gazest into the blue----
Maker to Maker!
Imperturbable, thou facest the westering Sun----
Chieftain to Chieftain!

_Immutable, thou gazest into the blue--
Maker to Maker!
Imperturbable, thou facest the Westering Sun--
Chieftain to Chieftain!_
]

THE PRIESTS (Estes Park)

Holy, holy, holy!
The high hills, the Great Mystery!...
The procession of the mountains is eternal,
The great mountains, each in his station abiding....
The crests of the mountains are exalted,
In the glories of the heavens they are transfigured!

Holy, holy, holy!
The high hills, the Great Mystery!...
The mountains lift up their heads----
Into the azure they lift them up;
Their bodies are swathed in silver light,
Their bodies are made luminous with splendors!

Holy, holy, holy!
They are the Priests of God,
They are the Processional of the Great Mystery!...
Their deep-toned voices are a singing hymn,
Their deep-toned voices are chanting the anthem of God;
In the House of Heaven they sing an eternal song!

_The Procession of the Mountains is eternal,
The great Mountains, each in his station abiding._
]

PALINGENESIS

The lodge of Olelbis is very great and beautiful:
Its pillars are the trunks of acorned oak-trees, upward growing;
Its walls are interwoven with all the flowers of the world;
In its midst there is a limpid pool
Formed from the dews that glide downward from the laden petals----
Who drinks thereof, he lives forever.

In the days of the First People
Fire was under the wing of the Swift;
Thence Flint stole it,
And the World was enkindled.

From his lodge in the sky Olelbis gazed downwards:
The hills were smoking,
The tops of the trees were blazing,
The rocks were consumed as burning brush
And the earth, bursting, flew upward in furious sparks which clung
to the vault of the sky,----
The stars that glow by night are the embers of them.

Then Olelbis saw that the flames assailed the foundations of the
heavens;
The pillars of his lodge were shaking,
The pillars of his lodge were burning,----
And his voice sounded around the World.

The Woman of the Waters was the first to hear:
Her hair is like the kelp which the waves spew forth in their
tumult;
Her hands are like the fins of huge whales;
Her feet are like the tail-flukes of huge whales;
When she thrashes amid the sea the foam of the billows washes the
sky-floor.

The Man of the North Wind was the first to hear:
His wings are like the wings of enormous bats,
They are blacker than night is black;
When he blows furiously his cheek feathers move up and down,
Sweeping earth and sky.

Against mountains of fire arose mountains of water;
They fought with one another,
They consumed one another;
Red smoke hung over all things;
Black smoke hung over all things.

Then Olelbis, gazing downward, beheld only ashes;
There was no earth where the earth had been;
There was no sea where the sea had been;
There was nought save the dusk of floating ashes.

From the walls of the lodge of Olelbis
The flowers descended like a many-colored snow;
From the Pool of Life
The round drops descended in a shining mist:
Life was renewed where Life had been.

_Then Olelbis saw that the flames assailed the foundations of the
heavens;
The pillars of his lodge were burning,--
And his voice sounded around the world._
]

ESCHATOLOGY

The Sick-Man-of-the-North,
He lies upon a litter;
There are four stars which are four Doctors who carry him;
There are three stars which are three Doctors who follow singing;
About the Star-which-Never-Moves they circle----
So it has been,
So it shall be, while the World lasts.

The Spirit-Star-of-the-South,
He was not so high in the heavens when Life was created;
His station was appointed him,
It was lower in the heavens:
He steals upward,
He steals northward, as the World grows older.

The White-Pathway-of-Souls,
It is like a bow laid athwart the night;
The souls of the departed journey southward over it....

When the Doctors cease their singing,
When the Spirit Star has reached a certain height, stealthily,
Will not He-of-the-North journey as they have journeyed----
Southward?

Then the Star-that-Never-Moves will be seen no more;
Then men will be seen no more.

THE ORIGIN OF DEATH

In the Day ere Man came,
In the Morning of Life,
They came together,
The Father, the Mother,
Debating.

“Forever they shall live,
“Our Children,
“When they are born Men
“Forever they shall live,”
Said the Father,
Said the Mother.

But the little Bird cried,
Ah, the little Bird cried:
“How shall I nest me----
“How shall I nest me
“In their warm graves
“If men live forever?”

_Death, you have taught me to mother!
Death, I will mother well!
With red, red blood I will nourish!
I will lull with the rifle’s spell!_
]

TO A CHILD’S MOCCASIN

Looted from the body of an Indian child killed at Wounded Knee.
’Twas complained that Indian women--some were slain--fought with
the braves; which, indeed, they did.

I

A wild mother’s patterned fancy--white beads, green and blue,
With here, like heart-stained arrows, scarlet zigzagged through,
Thy lining furry rabbit, little shoe!

How joyously she wrought thee, the long blue sunny day,
On the wind-stroked grass of the prairie, ’neath the willows’ shady
sway,
Singing the old song mothers sing alway:

_Chaske, my little Chaske, Chaske my brave to be!
Fleet shall he run as the stallion, stand tall as the tall pine
tree,
As the storm be mighty and valiant--Chaske, my chief to be!_

Stringing the beads in patterns, zigzag red and blue;
Sewing with thread of tendon the furry edges true;
Singing the song of mothers the blue day through.

II

A hill-slope, a desolation; yonder the cordoned crest
Of glinting gun and sabre--here, like mole in nest,
Trapped in the hill-crest’s hollow, the huntsmen’s quest.

A solitude of heaven, high and sunny still
Above a breadth of desert--sudden the locust shrill
Of bullets, then death, and sudden the war-whoop’s thrill.

And here a wild squaw-mother--something dead at the breast,
Something live at the shoulder, spitting lead with the best----
Singing a song of wild-heart’s cradle-rest:

_Death, you have taught me to mother! Death, I will mother well!
With red, red blood I will nourish, I will lull with the rifle’s
spell!
For O you have taught me to suckle and I will suckle them well!_

Only a wild squaw-mother, bullet-stung at the start,
Quiet out there in the desert, something dead nigh the heart.
See! her quaint fancy’s beading, zigzag art.

(_An old saying of the Plains_)]

“THE ONLY GOOD INDIAN IS A DEAD INDIAN”

So there he lies, redeemed at last!
His knees drawn tense, just as he fell
And shrieked out his soul in a battle-yell;
One hand with the rifle still clutched fast;
One stretched straight out, the fingers clenched
In the knotted roots of the sun-bleached grass;
His head flung back on the tangled mass
Of raven mane, the war-plume wrenched
Awry and torn; the painted face
Still foe-wards turned, the white teeth bare
’Twixt the livid lips, the wide-eyed glare,
The bronze cheek gaped by battle-trace
In dying rage rent fresh apart:--
A strange expression for one all good!--
On his naked breast a splotch of blood
Where the lead Evangel cleft his heart.

So there he lies at last made whole,
Regenerate! Christ rest his soul!

V

POEMS OF PUEBLO LAND

EARTH’S TERRACED BOWL

The art of the Pueblo Indians is so intimately woven into the pattern and fabric of their lives that it can hardly be called an art. It is never merely ornamental, and therefore dispensable; it is the intrinsic and indispensable mode of performing the essential acts of living, and its technique is an immediate reflection of the conditions of life. The forms which adorn the painted olla are those cloud, vegetation, and life forms which are spontaneously associated with the thought of water--a thought which is ever-present among these agriculturists in an arid country. The beads which trick out festal costumes are talismans, emblematic in the very nature of their materials and hues; and the colors which are ceremonially significant are the colors which Nature makes so varied and vivid in the soil and sky and vegetation of the Southwest. Dances themselves are as much in the character of agricultural operations and political duties as of festal holidays; and the Powers and Forces which to us are superstitions or personifications are for them normal presences. We speak of art and symbolism in connection with their modes of aesthetic expression because these are the terms with which we most nearly describe them; but it is always important in interpreting such an art to bear in mind that it has little in common, spiritually, with what in our own culture is analogous to it.

_Earth’s Terraced Bowl_ is an interpretation of the imagery of this Pueblo art-in-life. Its purpose is to aid in our comprehension of a beautiful and ancient culture, setting the coloristic and symbolic elements into relationship with the life which they express. The site described is the plateau above the Rio Grande, at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo range, where Santa Fé is built over the ruins of an ancient pueblo, and in its modern development is bringing into new expression the art and architecture of the ancient peoples. The images chosen are, first, the Pueblo woman potter, fashioning her ceremonial bowl, of which the terraced rim is emblem of the cloud-terraces that rise above the mountains in ever-changing variety; second, the man drilling emblematic beads of shell and turquoise, of jet and abalone, such as these Indians have used from beyond the dawn of history; third, the great mid-summer dance, now devoted to the mystery of the union of heaven and earth as it appears in vegetation and in the life which is dependent upon vegetation; and fourth, the festivals of fertility and of harvest, which complete, as it were, the definition of the life of man in this simple setting.

_The Woman who dwells in the Place of Mists,
The Woman who appears in dissolvent skies,
Her body is very slender and luminous,
Her hands touch the extremity of the Earth,
Her feet touch softly upon the Earth!_
]

EARTH’S TERRACED BOWL

I

_Four are the terraced Mountains that uphold the Heaven in that Land
and Four are the Colors that pattern the Life of Man._

In that land where the stars of the night are ever near and burning,
--eyes of spirit watchers through the Black pine forest;
In that land where the azures of day are quivering and intense,
--precious the blue turquoise in the womb of the treasure hill;
In that land where the red-scarred mesas sunder and canyon the
earth,
--walls of jasper and sard ribboned with malachite;
In that land whose corners are keyed by heaven-locking
mountains,----

Glorieta, the Herald of Morn,
Sandia, who purpleth the South,
Jemez, the hearth-fire of Evening,
And fourth, the Hills of the North,

The cloud-gloomed and crimson-flared Mountains of Bleeding
Christ....
In that land doth the white cumulus froth unto the blue summit of
Day,
and the ochres and beryls of earth fade into violet Night;
In that land do the terraced hills uphold the terracing clouds;
In that land do the Weavers of Rain spin filaments many and
delicate,

silvering horizons many,
veiling with luminous veils,
baptismal with blessing....

There also marcheth the Sun in the splendor of Beauty;
There also wandereth the Moon in the softness of Beauty;
There all the colors unite, patterned in Beauty;
There all the cloud-forms assemble, vestured in Beauty;
Daily in that land man walketh in Beauty;
Nightly in that land man dreameth in Beauty.

II

_There the Indian Woman adorneth her potter’s work with symbols of
the life that falleth from Heaven and of the life of Earth that
ariseth responsive thereto._

Behold, where the Indian Woman fashioneth her Bowl of red clay!
Ceremonial water it shall contain,
Ceremonial meal it shall contain;
It shall contain the Water and the Bread of Life,
Even as holdeth this Earth the Water and the Bread of Life!

Behold, earthen-red is the Bowl,
smooth-rounded and rising rimmed,
bordered with terraces four,----
Yea, as riseth this Earth four-terraced into the Heaven!

Behold, fair-painted is the Bowl, with the forms of Heaven
painted,----
cloud-terraces thereon painted,
filaments of spun rain thereon painted,
the wayward-darting lightning thereon painted,----
With curves many, with angles many, with lacings of thin lines,
painteth she them, cunning-handed....

Who are they who give answer unto the rains, save the leaf and the
flower?
Who are they who joy in the freshness of sweet dews, save the bird
and the butterfly?
To whom shall the moisture be more precious than unto the Seeds of
Life?
Wherefore these also, cunning of hand, she painteth fair upon the
Bowl.

Therewith, painteth him who sitteth upon the margin of the high
cloud, fluting,----
Him with the rain-pack humped upon his back, him the Cloud-Musician,
flower-garlanded, fluting,----
Him also she painteth, cunning-handed,
singing as she fashioneth her earthen Bowl,
singing as she painteth thereon the forms of Heaven,
singing the Song of the Cloud-Musician,
singing the Song of the Beautiful Sky!

_And this is her Song of the Beautiful Sky and of the Spirit Mother
whose abode is in the Pool of Heaven._

“Beautiful Sky!
The mountains are dark behind me;
The sun is low beyond them.
To the billowing cloud blown over the plain, the mountains are
bidding farewell,
The sun is touching it in farewell....

“Underneath, it is of the deepest blue, like the waters of soundless
pools;
Underneath, it is fringed with fringes of light-falling rain.
But above, its face is sunward;
Above, it is filmed with pale gold, as of the day-seen moon....

“Beautiful Sky!
In the heart of the cloud is a perfect Rainbow, seven-hued with
beauty;
Over her is a perfect Rainbow----
Her spirit mother!”

III

_There the Indian Man maketh him beads that are symbols of Earth’s
Quarters and of the Place of Man’s Life, central in the World._

Behold, the Indian Man, where he drilleth and polisheth----
Where he maketh him beads of four significant colors,
Talismans shapeth him, singing the Song of his Central Life!

White shell beads----
Are not the disks of Dawn faint-lustrous, as on the Eastern crests
fall the earliest footfalls of Morning?
Turquoise beads----
Broken are the shapes, irregular spaces of azure, where the white
clouds part, to mottle and pattern the sky....
Talismans of crystal----
Clear is the bubble of Day, zenith-high it is blown when all things
are perfect!

So the Father and the Mother
In their Night of Meditation
First the lustre of the Dawn laid,
Then the azure light of Morning,
Touched them with translucent crystal,
Touched, and lighted perfect Day!

Talismans of black stone----
Jet as the starless Night, as the cloud-enfolded Night....
Talismans of abalone----
Opalled as is Evening on the Western Sea, many-reflecting,----
These also shapeth he him, remembering....

For whither shall they pass, whose sun is in the West?
And whither shall they pass, whose lodge is in the deep Earth?
Theirs are the many reflections of the Sunset land!
Theirs is the black unfathomed Night!

Behold, the Indian, where he sitteth beside his hearth,
Making him beads of four significant colors;
Singing the Song of his Central Life,
Singing the Song of this Middle Place!

_The four colors of the Wheel of Day and the four colors of the
Circle of the Earth unite in the Middle Place, this is the song of
the Indian Man, as the winds of his mind are singing it._

“White light of Dawn,
Blue light of Day,
Saffrons of Sunset,
Thereafter swooning Night:

“In the Middle Place all are gathered together----
Morning and the East,
Nooning and the South,
The vanishing Eve of the West,
And Northering Night:

“In the Middle Place all colors meet,
To the Middle Place the Four Winds blow:
The Circle of the Earth,
The Wheel of Day,
In the Middle Place they are united:

“_I_ am the Middle Place!
_I_ am the Central Man!
The life of the Four Winds is my breathing life,
All colors unite to illuminate me!”

_I am the Middle Place!
I am the Central Man!
The Life of the Four Winds is my breathing life,
All colors unite to illuminate me!_
]

IV

_There, also, the tribes of the Red Men dance the images of man’s
life: the Fertilization of the Fields, they dance; the upgrowing of
the Corn; and the Summer, and the Winter, which are the seasons of
life._

Behold, the Musicians of Summer, the Indian Musicians, chanting!
Yellow and blue are the colors of the drums, whereto the dancers
dance----
The Dancers of Summer, crested with iridescent feathers, like the
many colors of flowers,
Crested with wisps of featherdown, like the cloud-breaths of summer
winds in the blue bowl of Heaven....
Is not blue the color of the South, whence the Summer cometh?
Is not the resplendent Sun robed in shining yellow?

Twain are the Seasons of the Year, as they dance alternating:
The Summer advances dancing, and it recedes;
The Winter advances dancing, and it recedes....
Twain also are the divisions of men, as they dance in alternation.

Behold, the Musicians of Winter, the Indian Musicians, chanting!
Red and green are the colors of their drums, whereto their dancers
dance----
The Dancers of Winter, their bodies with red earth many-symboled,
in their hands the cypress-green rhythmically waving....
Is not the bare earth red, where it gleams between the snows?
Are not the snow-bent brows of the cypress Wintergreen?

Twain are the Great Seasons, as they dance the Year, alternating;
Twain also are the divisions of men where they dance the Life of the
World----
Male and female they dance, twofold in each division,----
verily, as the Year is twofold in each division....
Particolored their drums, where they dance, particolored their
festal costumes;
Their voices they uplift in song, in the Song of the Color Mixer,
singing Him who apportioneth all,
who adorneth the World in Beauty,
who maketh all perfect in Beauty!

_Here followeth the Song of the Color Mixer, who createth the World
with the music of his drum, who painteth the Year with his light._

“Shining in four Times,
Shining in four Directions,----
Thus the Color Mixer hath created it!

“First is the blue----
The little clouds that float up from the South,
These are the breaths of Spring!

“Thereafter, the green----
All the Earth waveth with green-verdant feathers
Where the Summer Sun cometh forth, radiant in the East!

“Red-yellow is the third color----
In the West the mountains of Autumn are variegated,----
Red earth and yellow, red berries and yellow!

“White also is a color----
Many times it is shadowed with blue,
As if the Wintry North were remembering Spring!

“These make up the Year,
These make up the World,----
Thus the Color Mixer hath created it!”

V

_The Tribes of the Red Men rejoice in their fields, thinking with
thankfulness of the Cloud Spirits which have caused the Goodness of
Life to descend, and of the Rainbow Woman who hath woven the colors
of her body into the several-colored maize, and of the Corn Maidens,
with the pollen-hued butterflies at their lips._

Behold, the Tribes, where they rejoice in the bounties of the
harvest!
Men and women are there, and youths, laughter-loving;
Mothers are there, and children merry of limb;
The friendly animals are there, the sport-eager dog, the burro,
burden-bearing.

Many songs are sung in the midst of the maize-fields;
Many colors gleam where the people move to and fro,
Where they gather the sheathéd ears, the ears hard-ripened,
Where they gather the crispéd maize, gleaning the several colors.

Many the songs that are sung, and many the altars made precious
With gift of well-drilled bead, with polished talisman,
With fields of waving feathers bearing the plume-winged prayers,
Where from the terraced Bowl the sacred meal is scattered....

While the harvesters bethink them,
Singing, where the maize they gather,
Of the dancing Cloud-born Women,
Of the Maidens of the Mist-Foam,
Of the Daughters of the Sunbeams,
Of the shining Rainbow-Mother
In her stripes of many colors,
Like the corn of many colors....

_The Song of the Rainbow Woman, whose body archeth the Fields of
Life, is on the lips of the Harvesters._

“The Woman who dwells in the Place of Mists,
The Woman who appears in dissolvent skies,
Her body is very slender and luminous,
Her hands touch the extremity of the Earth,
Her feet touch softly upon the Earth!

“Adorned is her body with many and beautiful colors,
With the green of tender grass it is adorned,
With the blue of feathery lupine it is adorned,
With the red of glowing cactus,
With the yellow of bright pollen....

“Daughter Corn is likewise adorned with colors,
Blue corn there is and red corn,
Yellow corn there is and white corn:
All corn grows upon the bladed green,
Touched by the luminous sunlight, watered by crystal dews....

“The Woman who dwells in the Place of Mists,
Arching the caverns of the clouds,
Arching the Earth with Beauty!
Bride she is of the luminous Sun,----
Their offspring is corn of all colors!”

VI

_The colors of the World’s Quarters and the colors of the Year are
united in the Land itself, to paint the walks of Man’s Life with
beauty._

Thus speaketh that Land where the colors are gathered together,
Thus singeth the Heart of Man in the shining land of the mesas,
Where he watcheth the Weavers of Rain spin and pattern their
fabrics,
Where Earth lifteth terraced hills and the Heavens are terraced with
glories!

Four are the Hills of the Life of Man,
Four are the steps of Earth’s terraced Bowl,
Its corners are keyed with Heaven above,
Its Pattern of old was made whole--
in that Land where man walketh in Beauty,
in that Land where man dreameth in Beauty!

THE CORN MAIDENS

(A Pueblo Cycle)

_The Chief Singer remembereth the Powers of Life:_

Five are the Beings which alone are necessary----
Five are the Great Beings which man must know if he would live.

Whereof the first is the Shining Sun, father of all things illumined
with life;
Whereof the second is Earth, Mother of Men;
Whereof the third is Water, who is Elder of All;
And the fourth whereof is Fire, who is Elder of All.

Central is the fifth----
Central are our Brothers and Sisters of the Fields of Corn,
Central are our Brothers and Sisters the Seeds of Growing Things.

Five are the Beings which alone are necessary----
Five are the Beings whereby men live.

_All, all is beautiful!
The Seeds of Life are beautiful!
The Gifts of Life are beautiful!
Men walk in beauty!
The Children walk in beauty!_
]

_The Warriors of Light issue from Sipapú:_

Hail to the Light!
Hail to the Light!

The Sun of our Day is arisen,
The glory of Dawn fills our eyes!
Forth from the gloom of our prison,
Greeting the azuring skies!

Led on by the Warriors of Morning,
Led forth by the Archers of Light,
New splendors our bodies adorning,
We come from the mothering Night!

Our hearts are as dancers upleaping!
Our spirits a jubilant song!
Like summer-winged birds we come sweeping,
Throng within luminous throng!

Hailing the Light in its wonder!
Hailing the Heaven in its blaze!
Where the Dawning hath burst it asunder,
Filling with glory our days!

Hail to the Light!
Hail to the Light!

_The Earth is like a great drum beneath their feet:_

The Earth is throbbing like a drum----
Booming, reverberating,
Throbbing with deep pulsation....

So my heart is beating deeply,
So my heart is reverberating....

_The Corn Maidens are greeted with choric song:_

O ye Maidens! O ye Maidens!
O ye Maidens of the Corn!
Treasure bringing,
Pleasure singing,
Joy with you is yearly born!
With beauty ye our lives adorn!

Ye are the Sisters of the singing Trees;
Ye are the Daughters of the sighing Fields;
O’er your silks and tassels throng the humming bees
Gathering the honeys which your pollen yields!

Round your grateful roots the nursing waters run,
Under leafy shelters the swelling corn-ears form,
With their precious kernels growing one by one,
Ripening for the harvest-day, sheathéd from all harm!

Earth with fields a-dancing ye make beautiful!
Earth with hues entrancing ever ye make fair!
The vessel of rejoicing ye keep forever full!
The singing of your voices fills the singing air!

O ye Maidens! O ye Maidens!
O ye Maidens of the Corn!
Planting, tilling,
Baskets filling----
Joy with you is yearly born,
Where with beauty, where with beauty
Yearly ye our lives adorn!

_The Flute Musician summoneth to cool slumber:_

Cool wells of water,
Clear wells of sweet water,
I slumber beside them....

Star phantoms in water,
Dream phantoms in water,
I gaze on them slumbering....

Echoing voices of women,
Echoing from the still water,
I harken them slumbering....

Liquid melodies lingering,
Floating faint o’er the water,
Soothe my soul in its slumber....

Where the pools lie silent,
Deep and placid the water,
I sink into slumber....

Where life’s wanderings vanish,
Sunk in the shadowless water,
Fade the dim phantoms of slumber....

_The Morning Star summoneth the Corn Maidens:_

Come away! Come away! Come away!

Over the crest of the Southland,
Over the marge of the Year!

Into the Gardens of Summer,
Into Fields ever green, ever dear!

Unto the Land of Rejoicing,
Unto the Dancers of Cheer!

Where the Sons of Morning waken through the circles of the Sky,
And the zonéd World refreshened turneth with exultant cry,
While the flaming Sun ascendant leapeth shouting zenith-high!

There the fields in glowing colors down the bright horizons throng;
There the minstrel winds beguiling mellow music bear along,
And the heart of life upspringeth in a jubilance of song!

Come away! Come away! Come away!

Into the Gardens of Summer,
Over the marge of the Year!
Fleet to the Land of Rejoicing----
Fleet with the Dancers of Cheer!

_The Corn Maidens linger in the Place of Mist and Dew:_

Mists of Morning dreamily ascending----
Earth and Heaven in one being blending....
Upcoming corn,
Tender-green corn....

Breaths of Summer balmy-fragrant blowing----
Crystal dews upon the corn-leaves glowing....
Silkening corn,
Tasseling corn....

Butterflies from honey-cups sweet sipping----
Pollen-dews upon the corn low-dripping....
Ear-forming corn,
Kernelling corn....

Feathered wings of birds the blue sky covering----
Golden haze o’er all the cornfields hovering....
Ripening corn,
Hardening corn....

Many colors through the wide fields dancing----
Laughing sunlight o’er the cornlands glancing....
Crisp-sheathéd corn,
Harvest-ripe corn....

_Sun’s Gleam parteth the mists and revealeth the Rainbow Woman:_

Sun Gleam! Sun Gleam!
Part thou the Mists of their Concealment!
Cleave thou the clouds that do them veil!

Sun Gleam! Sun Gleam!
Bare thou the way to their revealment!
Blaze to their biding-place swift trail!

_The Choir watcheth with eagerness:_

Lo, now she cometh glory-vestured----
Daughter of Joy! Daughter of Day!
Lo, now she cometh beauty-splendored,
Crested with Sun-Father’s ray!

She bursteth the seals of the Night,
The lair of the hidden layeth bare!
She scattereth with lances of light
The demons of Earth and of Air!

She maketh still places to shout,
The caverns of silence to sing!
The choirs of the hills wide about
With joy of her radiance ring!

Lo, she darteth her arrows flame-feathered!
The fog-hidden bursteth aglow!
Up, up, from the arches of crystal
Springeth the Mist-Mother’s Bow!

_The Rainbow Woman approacheth the Zenith:_

O Woman of the Rainbow, we hail thee!
Daughter of Sun Gleam, we hail thee!

The Place of Concealment is found!
Abode of the precious Corn Maidens!

_The Choir chanteth the beauty of the World:_

All, all is beautiful!
Once again all is beautiful!

The Fathering Sun,
The Mothering Earth,
Yearn unto one another,
Warm unto one another,
Where all is beautiful!

The rain-fringéd clouds,
The light-gleaming dew,----
Crystal of Heaven,
Crystal of Earth,----
In their freshness all is beautiful!

Fair blossoms of flowers,
Fair pollens of corn,----
The meadows rejoice in them,
The fields rejoice in them,----
In their fragrance all is beautiful!

Colored plumes of the World,
Colored kernels of corn,----
Day they make precious,
Life they make precious,----
In their fruitfulness all is beautiful!

Yea, all, all is beautiful!
The Seeds of Life are beautiful!
The Gifts of Life are beautiful!
Men walk in beauty!
The Children walk in beauty!

_They gather at the mud-walled church,
A crew of motlied folk,
In gala dress their saint to bless,
In striped and fringéd cloak...._
]

SAINT DOMINIC’S DAY

_August 4, Pueblo of Santo Domingo_

A blessed Saint is Dominic
And blessed folk are they,
In many a land, ’neath many a sun,
Who keep his holy day----
Who gift of waxen tapers bring
And kneel them down to pray:

Who kneel before his image bright
With golden-bearded face
And gilded robe and coronet
And beg of him a grace----
Where they keep the dear Saint’s festival
In many an outland place.

’Tis in the time of the tasseled maize
When the fields are plumed with green
And the mesas of the terraced land
Red-wall them in between,
While overhead the cloud-flecked sky
Is lazily serene,----
’Tis in this time men dance the corn
That the harvest be not lean.

They gather at the mud-walled church,
A crew of motlied folk,
In gala dress their Saint to bless,
In striped and fringéd cloak,
In beaded shirt and blanket gay,
Answering the bellman’s stroke:

They heed them well the chiméd bell,
They go within to pray
Where golden-bearded Dominic
In festival array----
The blessed Saint in festal paint----
Smiles pleasantly that day:

He smiles upon each worshipper
Who enters at the door
And makes the sign of Christian faith
From the bowl that stands before----
The bowl with olden pagan things
Obscurely patterned o’er,----

Who kneels before the sanguined rail,
The Virgin in her blue,
The Christ upon his painted Cross,----
And nigh them, bright of hue,
A pony and a buffalo
Some dark-skinned artist drew,
With cock and stag and butterfly,
And maize just as it grew

All greened and bannered in the fields
Long ages ere the day
The foreign priest had brought the feast
Of Dominic that way----
The long-robed priest had taught the feast
And taught the words to say
When in the time of tasseled maize
For plenty men must pray:

And so they gather at the church,
As now for many a year,
Within its old adobe walls
Holy mass to hear
While they kneel where dear Saint Dominic
Sits smiling pleasant cheer,----
For corn will grow as all men know
If Dominic be near.

With beating drum and rattling shell,
With gunshot and with shout,
Beneath a flaunting canopy
They bring the bright Saint out,----
The priest with gold-rimmed spectacles,
The friar gowned and stout,
The squaw, the chief, the blanket-man,----
Color a-flame in the motlied clan,----
The lanky long-haired scout
Nigh a bronzen, earringed Navaho
Lingering thereabout.

They march them down the earthen street,----
Each house must Dominic grace;
They chant a hymn in the Latin tongue
Which Old World centuries have sung;
They come to the village place,
Where in his shrine made blanket-gay,
They set the Saint to face
The motlied throng that march with song
Into the sunny space----
White, golden-bearded Dominic
Sainting a dark-skin race.

Oh, skies are blue where all day through
The painted dancers come
With plumes a-flare in their dusky hair,
With rattle and with drum----
In bright array with bannered display,
All timed to the rhythmic drum!

Oh, earth is fair in the sunny air,
With her fields of flowing green,
Where the mesas of the terraced land
Red-wall them in between----
And the folk are gay as they dance the day
That the harvest be not lean!

With naked bodies striped and daubed,
With flaming parrot crest,
Bright necklaces, and terraced crowns
Adorned with floating featherdowns----
Earth with the sunlight blest!
And ghostly white Koshare clowns,
Like souls that know no rest----
Like living souls with ancient things
Uncannily possessed!

To rattle and drum the dancers come,
The dust-brown earth they beat,
While the singers intone an heathen drone
Where they follow with rhythmic feet----
An heathen drone which their sires had known
Would make the harvest sweet!

They come before Saint Dominic,
They dance the growing maize,
Its planting and its tasseling,
Full-bladed summer days,
And the dews and rains that fill the grains,
And the purple harvest haze----
The life that lies in Mother Earth
And in bright Sun-Father’s rays:

Dancing they sing the antique song
That made the maize to grow
Or ever Christian priest or saint
Their sires had come to know----
Dancing they sing an heathen thing
Out of the long ago----
That brought fair yield to the tilléd field
Dim centuries ago.

Yes, a blessed Saint is Dominic
And blessed folk are they
Who come with dancing feet to meet
Upon his holy day----
Who tapers bring and old songs sing
And reverently pray

Kneeling before his image bright
With its golden-bearded face,
As the priests had taught when first they brought
Their Saint to the dark-skin race,----
Who should keep each year his festival
In their ancient dancing-place.

_They kneel before the sanguined rail,
The Virgin in her blue,
The Christ upon his painted cross,--
And nigh them, bright of hue,
A pony and a buffalo
Some dark-skinned artist drew._
]

_They mocked her for her outland ways,
They jeered her kin and clan._
]

FLOWER ALONE

A Santa Clara woman
In Sant’ Domingo town,
Her rights were less than human
That day at red sundown,----
They made her less than dogs are made
Within the stranger town.

Oh, she was wicked merry
On Santa Clara street!
Red-brown as a berry,
Hale as ripened wheat;
And he who came to woo her,
He came on dancing feet.

Round his raven locks a kerchief gay,
His belt of the silver wrought,----
From Sant’ Domingo all the way
With none but her in thought:
A braided scarf, a turquoise ring,
These were the gifts he brought.

Why should she heed the old wives’ saw?
“A bride should seek her bed
“Within the pale of the village law
“Wherein she hath been bred.”
At old wives’ tales and old wives’ wails
She shook a saucy head.

And so in Sant’ Domingo town
She ground her daily corn;
She drew her water at the well,
And there her babe was born;
And earthen pots she made to sell
And quaintly did adorn.

A Santa Clara woman
Within a stranger town,
Its folk were more than human
To hold her as their own:
A saucy-head she had been bred,
Should they not bring her down?

They mocked her for her outland ways,
They jeered her kin and clan;
They whispered evil of her days,
They won away her man,----
A saucy-head she had been bred,
But, oh, her heart grew wan!

They babbled evil of her days
And evil of her art;
They mocked, they jeered, they came to gaze
Where she bode with aching heart,----
Where moody-eyed in her alien pride
With her babe she sat apart.

A Santa Clara woman
In Sant’ Domingo town,
They made her less than human,
And the hour was red sundown
When from cut and gash of the plaited lash
Crimson her blood ran down.

Crimson her blood as the setting sun,
But never to blow or curse
Did she open her lips till their work was done
And they left her for better or worse,----
Till they dragged her tied to a horse’s tail
And left her for a corse.

She lay beside the beasts’ corral,
Her body as the dead,
And dimly she heard the tiny call
Of her babe that would be fed,----
Dimly she heard, and she did crawl
To nurse it, while she bled.

A Santa Clara woman
Within a stranger town;
Her rights were less than human
When redly the sun went down,----
But the babe that was born of her body
She nursed while the blood ran down.

With curious eyes I watched her at work
Where she plied her potter’s art
And creatures drew with cunning hand,
Bright for the white man’s mart,----
I wondered at the blood-red band
Limned to each crimsoned heart.

_His step was soundless and he seemed
A phantom in the land._
]

THE POTTERY PEDDLER

I saw him with his pack of wares,
Spoil of an ancient craft,----
His body supple as the bow
After the true-sped shaft:

I liked the weave of banded wool
That girt him at the thighs;
I liked the glint of gaudy things
That filled me with surmise:

The abalone at his ears,
His beaded turquoise string;
The kerchief round his glossy hair----
Red on a blackbird’s wing:

I liked the silver where its hue
Shone on his earth-brown skin,
And, oh, his patient eyes I liked,
All smouldering within.

I saw him loping up the road
Made by the white man’s hand:
His step was soundless, and he seemed
A phantom in the land.

I saw him on a white man’s street----
And, lo, the street was gone
A century of centuries
While still mine eyes looked on!

And I beheld him, lithe and proud,
Chief upon plain and hill,----
The eagle was his panoply,
The mountain lion his kill:

About him thronged his earth-brown kin,
Rhythmic with the drum,----
I saw their gleaming feathers
And their bright musicians come:

I saw them with their patterned robes,
Their glint of gaudy things,
Their greens, their reds, their silver whites,
Their dangles and their rings:

A century of centuries
While still mine eyes looked on:
An Indian--and the white man’s street
Ten thousand years agone!

_But yesterday its people passed
Into their silence and their night,
Leaving their broken walls to glow
Encrimsoned by the shafted light._
]

THE DEAD PUEBLO

In 1838 the dozen or so of Indians, who comprised at that time the fading population of Pecos, abandoned their ancient pueblo and took refuge with their kinfolk of Jemez from the unceasing Comanche raids, which for more than a century had been diminishing the tribe. This closed a period of continuous occupation estimated by archaeologists at more than fifteen hundred years, during which the pueblo had become the most powerful in the Rio Grande region. A veritable fortress on its final site,--for it had been removed to the mesa top from an earlier location across the arroyo,--it is believed that Pecos had been founded as a result of the growing attacks of the wild tribes of the Plains and Desert upon the scattered farming communities of the fertile valleys and uplands of the vicinity. For many centuries and through many shifts of the local culture (by no means primitive when Pecos was founded) the community grew in strength--an eastern outpost of the Pueblo civilization. When in 1540 Coronado entered New Mexico in quest of the “seven cities of Cibola,” the people of Cicuyé (a Tewa name by which Pecos became known to the Spaniards) sent a delegation with presents, offering their friendship. Hernando de Alvarado was despatched to the town, where, says the chronicler Castañeda, “the people came out with signs of joy, and brought them into the town with drums and pipes and something like flutes, of which they had a great many; they made many presents of cloth and turquoises, of which there are quantities in that region; and the Spaniards enjoyed themselves for several days.” Of the village Castañeda says: “The houses are all alike, four stories high. One can go over the top of the whole village without there being a street to hinder. There are corridors going all around it at the first two stories, by which one can go around the whole village.... The people of this village boast that no one has been able to conquer them and that they can conquer whatever villages they wish.” It was at Pecos that the Spaniards found the Plains Indian “El Turco,” who told of the wonderful Quivera and lured them on into the expedition toward the Missouri River. When finally Coronado returned to Mexico, Friar Luis, a lay brother, remained at Pecos, one of the two first missionaries of the region. Castañeda writes: “Nothing more has been heard about him; but before the army left Tiguex some men who went to take him a number of sheep met him as he was on his way to visit some other villages.... He felt very hopeful that he was liked at the village [Pecos] and that his teaching would bear fruit, although he complained that the old men were falling away from him. I, for my part, believe that they finally killed him.” Later the Franciscans built at Pecos one of their largest establishments, now a massive ruin.

THE DEAD PUEBLO

I

A valley with its ancient hills
Deep-founded in earth’s adamant
And crested dark with driven cloud,
Like warrior’s trophies blown aslant:

With zenith-high a riven space,
Whence royal from his azured zones
The golden sun strikes sheer where lie
The dead pueblo’s fallen stones:

A ruin upon the mesa top
Above the scarred arroyo’s sands,
Its ochres crimsoned by the glow,
Mid rock-strewn solitudes it stands:

Where citadelled as now with light
Its ramparts stood a thousand years,
The valley’s strong Acropolis
Against the gathering murk of fears:

When Caesars held imperial sway
Its dusky warriors manned their wall;
Round council-fires its chieftains sate
When Roland fell at Roncevalles:

What time the looms of Flanders wove,
Its women spun their fleecy thread;
They fashioned earthen burial jars
While wailing mere mourned Arthur dead:

The dancers gathered to its feasts
The while Columbus sailed the seas;
At Coronado curious gazed
Its children from their mothers’ knees:

And there where now is grass-grown nave,
Walls summer-breached and winter-rent,
To pray before a Christian saint
Came many a dark-hued penitent:

But yesterday its people passed
Into their silence and their night,
Leaving their broken walls to glow
Encrimsoned by the shafted light:

Leaving their valley’s purpled hills
To gather glamours and to brood,
Scornful of man and his phantom years,
In vast and patient solitude.

II

In the days of the Sires of the People
Came the First-remembered of Men
Forth from the wombs of mothering Night,
To seek their Sign and to find their Light,
And to hew them homes mid the virgin loams,
Then, as ever again.

Out of the mists of the past they marched,
Children of Earth and of Sky,----
The red-soil land was theirs to claim,
The hill-born torrent their flood to tame,
And avalanche-thrown was the quarry-stone
For their houses builded high.

They gathered them where the valleys smiled,
They gathered them, tribe and clan,----
They laid their walls through the sunny days;
They broke their fields and they tilled their maize,
And they sang them airs and chanted them prayers
That come with the joy of man.

Till up from the glowing desert,
And up from the wandering plain,
The greased and painted warriors crept
With sudden whoop on them that slept----
Like wolves in bands from the famished lands,----
And they left a bloody stain.

They ravaged the peaceful farmsteads,
They shattered and scattered the folk,
And they filled the land with a deathly spell,
Where Apache stealth and Comanche yell
And the treacherous blow of the Navaho
Their nightly terrors woke.

Till the chieftains counselled in sorrow
Mid the sound of women’s woe,
And they swore to build them a fortress-keep,
And to hold their lands, and to sow and reap
Where Sacred Earth had given them birth,
Whatso might be their foe!

And they set the rocks of their citadel
On the mesa’s granite crest,
And their terraces rose till the barren space
Became a nation’s gathering place,
And the red light shone from the stubborn stone
Where the People dwelt at rest.

And a new Age dawned and their troubled Morn
Passed into the splendid Day;
And they sang from their roofs when their work was done
High-chanted hymns to the Fathering Sun;
And their bows were strong and the arrow’s prong
Kept the carrion tribes at bay.

_With their cornfields and their beanfields,
With their vines of squash and pumpkin,
With their sunflowers and tobacco,
Dwelt the olden folk of Pecos._
]

III

Time was kindly with this people
In the ancient Vale of Pecos,
In their citadel enseated
High above the scarred arroyo,
High upon the brunting mesa.

There within the storeyed houses
Built about their dancing plaza,
Walled against the foeman’s onslaught,
Walled and towered and ever watchful,
Safe and happy dwelt the people:

With their cornfields round about them
In the pleasant watered valleys,
Fair with corn of many colors
Sacred to the Guardian Mothers----
White of Morn and blue of Zenith,
Yellow for the burning Sunset,
Speckled for the cloudy Northland:
Earth and Sky have many colors,
So the corn has colors many
Sacred to the Guardian Mothers:

With their cornfields and their beanfields,
With their vines of squash and pumpkin,
With their sunflowers and tobacco,
Dwelt the olden folk of Pecos
Rich and happy in their valley:

And the fires upon their hearth-stones
Glowed at dawn and glowed at twilight,
And the wavering smoke ascended
Quiet into quiet heavens----
Till the city seemed reflected
In the vaporous blue of noonday,
In the gleaming stars of night-time:

And the women at their grinding
Sang the Song of Fruitful Pollen;
And the maidens at their spinning
Sang the Breath-song of the Cotton;
And they wove their baskets singing,
Singing modelled earthen vessels,
Painted brown and black and yellow
With the symbols of the Cloud-Folk,
Of the Mist-Folk and the Rain-Folk,
And the sudden zig-zag Lightning----
And they left the life-line broken
For the spirit of the vessel
That it might not be imprisoned
In the moulded clay forever:

And the menfolk in the cornfields
Sang the Song of Winter Breaking,
Sang the Springtime and the Seeding,
Sang the Tasseling and Summer,
Sang the Fruitfulness of Harvest,
And the Life that stirs in all things:

And within their sacred Kivas,
Where the Priests and Elders gathered
Round their Totems and their Altars,
Underneath the painted symbol
Of the Plumed and Crested Serpent,
There they sang their Spirit Ancients
And the deeds of mighty Heroes,
Of the Brothers armed with sunbeams
Where they slew the hateful monsters
When the Primal People wandered
And the World was in its making:

And within the sacred Kivas
Said the prayers their sires had taught them,
That the tribe might live forever
Fathered by the Shining Heaven,
Mothered on Earth’s fruitful bosom,
With the Winds forever breathing
Fourfold Life from out the Quarters
Of the fourfold World man dwells in:

And the men and women gathered,
And the young men and the maidens,
And the children and the strangers,
When above the Kivas flaunted
Banners brilliant with bright feathers
Telling of the coming feast-day
With the dancing and the chanting
And the altars set with prayer-plumes,
Where the grave-faced Priests and Elders
Smoked before the sacred emblems
Of the Powers that watched the nation:

In the ancient Vale of Pecos,
In its days of peace and plenty,
When the people lived securely
In their citadel enseated
High above the scarred arroyo,
High upon their granite mesa.

_And within their sacred Kivas,
Where the Priests and chieftains gathered,
Painted with the Serpent Symbol,
With their totems and their altars,
Sang the days of Spirit Ancients._
]

_The Cross of Christus crucified,
With thorn-pressed brow and piercéd side,
And body wounded sore._
]

IV

Blessed is the martyr’s crown
And valiant were they who wore
In Francis’ name the corded gown
And to the heathen bore
The Cross of Christus crucified,
With thorn-pressed brow and piercéd side
And body wounded sore:

Like valiant soldiers they did come
To preach their Gospel mild
And find them sweetest martyrdom
Within an heathen wild----
St. Francis’ men, who turned to kiss
The Crucifix, and met their bliss,
And on their murderers smiled.

Bruit had come to the Pecos folk
Of warrior-men from Heaven,
Who strid strange beasts and in thunders spoke
And armed them with red levin----
Who bannered their hosts with new gods and dread
And shook the land with a terrible tread
Where they searched for the Cities Seven:

And the Priests and the Elders wafted high
The smoke of their questioning prayer,
And they asked of Earth and they asked of the Sky
And they asked of the Lords of the Air----
And the signs breathed peace, and they were content,
And unto the strangers their captains they sent
With gifts and with covenants fair.

For why should they fear the stranger’s face
When the Powers whom their sires had known
Had boded them well from the Sacred Place
With its ancient divining stone?
Why should men fear who through perilous past
By their strong gods warded were mighty at last
Into a nation grown?

So with flute and with drum and with gala cheer
Forth they thronged them to greet
The steeled and glittering Cavalier
And the Friar with way-worn feet----
And the men of Spain found pleasant rest,
And the ovens glowed, and each grateful guest
Warm-scented the odors sweet:

Oh, the men of Spain in Pecos town
Were welcomed with joyous array,
Whose folk little dreamed as the dusk closed down
That their Sun had ended that day----
That an Age of the Red Man’s World was past,
And down from their altars his gods were cast
To silently vanish away!

Oh, who could the bitterness and the blood
Of their lurid morrow know?
Where the aged shaman sat grim with his brood
Of the Spirits of long ago,
And the lonely friar with his lifted sign
Stood watching the riders in drifting line
Pass out to the morning glow:

And who should rue his martyr’s crown
To the valiant soul who wore
In Francis’ name the corded gown
And to the heathen bore
The Cross of Christus crucified,
With thorn-pressed brow and piercéd side
And body wounded sore?

In after years they came again
In corded robe and cowl,
The army of St. Francis’ men,
With book and adz and trowel----
And they builded their church and their masses said,
And they pastored the living and prayed for the dead,
And succored them many a soul:

And the folk of the ancient citadel
To Christian rites were born,
And they harkened to a Christian bell,
And they prayed to Christ each morn----
And sometimes in the fading day
Their olden altars, in decay,
With plumes they did adorn.

_And the lonely friar with his lifted sign
Stood watching the riders in drifting line
Pass out to the morning glow._
]

V

Still do the valley’s ancient hills,
Oblivious of man’s passing years,
Renew their bloom with the summer sun
And gloam with gray cloud-fallen tears:

Above their purple crests still climb
The storm’s dark streamers ’thwart the heaven----
Like ghosts of old marauders come
Bright-arrowed with the jagged levin:

And still upon the mesa top
The dead pueblo’s ruined walls
Flare back defiance where the light
In crimson splendor o’er them falls:

About the plaza strewn with shards
Like phantom footsteps fitful go
The phantom winds and idly shift
The downs of thistles to and fro:

And sway the purple huaco’s spires,
And bend the sunflower’s yellow head
O’er wild verbenas lavender
And Indian paintbrush saffron-red:

And ruffle faint the placid pool
That gathers on the kiva’s floor
To mirror still the cloudy forms
Pictured upon its walls of yore:

While in the chambers long untrod
The broken vigas and the clay
Imprinted with the builder’s hand
Yet crumble in their slow decay:

And underneath the mounded stones
That mark the ancient wall and keep,
With gaud and trinket nigh their bones,
Do they that builded sleep their sleep:

There, warded by the broken church
And tumulus that bears the Rood,
Rememberless the ruins lie,
Dead, mid the valley’s solitude:

Above them, with his pinions spread
Majestic in his noiseless flight,
The Eagle wheels; then soars him far
To vanish in the western night.

VI

AZTEC GODS

_O Lord, very mighty!
On the day that I honor thee I shall ascend a terraced temple;
Bright flowers will adorn my head, dancing maidens will accompany
me;
To the music of pulsing flutes I shall sing thee with triumphant
voice!_
]

TEZCATLIPOCA

Puissant Lord!
Invisible, impalpable, inescapable!

Men see thee not, and thou art with them;
Men touch thee not, and thou art with them;
Men know thee not, and thou knowest them.

The dense rocks are as crystal before thee;
The hearts of the quaking mountains are as crystal before thee;
As crystal is my heart--naught therein is hidden from before thee.

Thy mind doth reflect all secret things, O Tezcatlipoca!
Thou art as a fume-dark mirror of polished obsidian, deep with
reflection.
All things remote thy body doth envelop; none withstay thee, who art
the blown breath of the spacious world!

Whistlings and flutings and the rumblings of many drums are thine,
And the Night Winds are thy hounds, that bay thy relentless Ways;
Thou art the Sweeper-up of the Realms of Silence--they also are of
thee.

O Lord very mighty!
On the day that I honor thee I shall ascend a terraced temple;
Bright flowers will adorn my head, dancing maidens will accompany
me;
To the music of pulsing flutes I shall sing thee with triumphant
voice!

O Lord very terrible!
On the day that I honor thee I shall mount upon the Dragon of Stone;
I shall break my singing flute, the flowers of my chaplet I shall
scatter to the winds:
On the day that I honor thee my heart I shall cast before thee!

Let it be pellucid as crystal, on that day when thou shalt pierce
me!
Let it be as bodiless light, when thou comest with unstaying feet!
Let my heart be altogether pure, when as a fleet wind thou takest me
hence!

O Tezcatlipoca!
Lord ever terrible! Lord inescapable!

_Radiant Lily, there where thou standest
Exhaling fragrance,
A Butterfly to thy lips clinging,--
Radiant Lily,
I thank thee!_
]

XOCHIQUETZAL

Radiant Lily, there where thou standest
Exhaling fragrance,
A Butterfly to thy lips clinging,----
Radiant Lily,
I thank thee.

Upon the lips of the Goddess of Flowers
A Butterfly is clinging----
Upon the lips of the Goddess of Life
An iridescent Butterfly,
Sipping the sweets,
Fanning its wings in her breath.

Is she not beautiful----
The Lily of Life?
Exhaling her fragrance,
With golden pollen fruitful,
Summoning the Winged Spirits?

QUETZALCOATL

Thou green-feathered Sky-Snake,
Thou crested Serpent,
Thy body is the undulating cloud, the rolling cloud,
Boiling white above,
Black-bellied.
Forked lightnings are thy tongues,
Thine eyes flash forked lightnings;
Thy great drums boom
From mountain to mountain, thundering----
Whither thou goest bearded with black rain,
Shedding beneath thee a reek of black rain.

He was an old man when he sailed away to Tlapallan:
Bright was his countenance as the silver-crested cloud;
Like a descending rain was his streaming beard;
His wind-blown robe was as the blue rain hiding the hill-tops.
Upon the azure lake he was wafted,
Serpent-treading----
Wafted beyond the horizons of day and night,
Wafted unto Tlapallan,
Quetzalcoatl departing.

He was an old man when he sailed afar to Tlapallan:
Venerable was his streaming beard.
Shall he not come again unto his children?
Shall he not once more be wafted upon the azure lake,
Serpent-treading,
In vaporous robes resplendent?
Shall he not strike forth with staves of sunbeam,
Making earth fruitful,
Making beautiful the feathered fields----
With corn of all colors,
With flowers of all colors?

Lo, where his hand is uplifted----
Quetzalcoatl of the East, Quetzalcoatl of the West!
Lo, where he hurleth into the heaven his Fire-Snakes----
Great Serpents, like undulating clouds,
Crested, rain-reeking.
Their bellies blacken the sky;
Their fierce rains flood earth’s hill-rimmed vale;
Their drumming is from mountain to mountain;
From horizon to horizon is their thunder.

Wonderful are the green plumes of the quetzal, flowing:
They bend in gracious curves, aslant in the sunlight;
They glow like fields of bladed maize, aslant in the sunlight;
All precious jewels shine within them----
Green fire-opals and blue turquoise,
The colors of all flowers,
The rich tasselings of bearded corn....
How beautiful are the dews dropt from the Sky-Serpent!
How precious are thy gifts, O Quetzalcoatl!

My offering is corn of seven hues;
My offering is blue smoke of tobacco;
My offering is a precious plume of the green-feathered quetzal;
A rich jewel is my offering, green, with fire in its heart!
Answer me from the two horizons,
O Quetzalcoatl!
From the rims of night and day return unto me,
O Quetzalcoatl, Lord very grateful!

_Thou green-feathered Sky Snake,
Thou crested Serpent,
Thy body is the undulating cloud, the rolling cloud,_
]

TONATIUH

There is a valorous cry when he mounts with the Morning----
Tonatiuh! Tonatiuh!
Golden plumes shining, emerald plumes shining,
Bannerets of scarlet, and tawny skins of lions,----
There is a valorous cry like the shouting of many armies
When the souls of the Battle-Slain mount with their Chieftain Sun!

At the Place of the Zenith they lay down their arms----
Tonatiuh! Tonatiuh!
At the Place of the Zenith the Warriors are defeated;
From the Place of the Zenith the Sun descends mid wailing.

There is wailing and woe when he descends to the House of
Evening----
Alas, for Tonatiuh!
They drag him down--their hair is disheveled with mourning,
Their fingers are many and sharp--they, the Dark Mothers,
Whose breasts are heavy for the children they died in bearing:
Wailing they drag him down, the Vengeful Mothers----

Alas, for Tonatiuh!
Alas, for Tonatiuh!

_Lord Fire!
Thou who art the Central Burning,
Who art armed with a spear-thrower,
Who art armed with many spears--
The Gaping Jaws of Earth are beneath thee,
Whereof the teeth are obsidian blades...._
]

XIUHTECUTLI

Lord Fire!
Thou who art the Central Burning,
Who art armed with a spear-thrower,
Who art armed with many spears----
The Gaping Jaws of Earth are beneath thee,
Whereof the teeth are obsidian blades,
Whereof the maw is Mictlan,
Whereof the belly is the House of Bones....

Lord Fire!
Thou dost give a little light,
Thou dost give a little warmth,
With thy spears thou dost give a little defense
Against the day and the hour when I must descend....

I will make thee an offering of blood,
I will make thee an offering of a man’s heart----
My heart I will give thee,
That thou mayest burn a little longer,
That the Jaws close not so soon upon me....
Lord Fire! Lord Fire!

The End

Transcriber’s Notes

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Small capitals are changed to lower case.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.