Beautiful it is at morning

Where the starkest shadows fall,

And the golden orb arises,

Sounding hope with ev'ry call;

When the brush is dabbed with umber,

And the clouds are under-lit,

Earth in groans and quiet whispers

So awakens bit by bit.

Beautiful it is at noonday

When the sweat drops to the ground,

Where the steady chant of labor

Mixes with the hammer's sound;

Warm, the blazing sun caresses,

For the work which makes us strong

And the heavy weight of burden

Mix to lift a valiant song.

Beautiful it is at evening

With the western sky aglow

When the arms of even's shadows

Round the weary earth would throw,

And the stars are embers scattered,

For the flames have died away;

So the spread of night envelopes

'Til the dawn of endless day.

Waterfall

Waterfall

(or upon considering those who, young and vigorous, grow old and die)

Cascada serena,

Cautiva de pena

y meláncolia,

Distante y fría,

Caudal de pureza

cristal de tristeza.

Such is this ephemeral veil that,

crashing from the mountain,

roars and mingles foam

like silver rings and,

bound in nature’s secret tome,

still speaks, though mute,

from hidden shelves of memory’s room.

These are the rivulets that flow,

embracing rocks which scarce impede

the water’s constant progress to the sea,

where it, too, shall peacefully fold

forever into the waves.