cia de Estudiantes, has published his complete works up to date.

The following translations are necessarily inadequate, as the poems
depend very much on modulations of rhythm and on the expressive fitting
together of words impossible to render in a foreign language. He uses
rhyme comparatively little, often substituting assonance in accordance
with the peculiar traditions of Spanish prosody. I have made no attempt
to imitate his form exactly.

I

Yes, come away with me--fields of Soria,
quiet evenings, violet mountains,
aspens of the river, green dreams
of the grey earth,
bitter melancholy
of the crumbling city--
perhaps it is that you have become
the background of my life.

Men of the high Numantine plain,
who keep God like old--Christians,
may the sun of Spain fill you
with joy and light and abundance!

II

A frail sound of a tunic trailing
across the infertile earth,
and the sonorous weeping
of the old bells.
The dying embers
of the horizon smoke.
White ancestral ghosts
go lighting the stars.

--Open the balcony-window. The hour
of illusion draws near...
The afternoon has gone to sleep
and the bells dream.

III

Figures in the fields against the sky!
Two slow oxen plough
on a hillside early in autumn,
and between the black heads bent down
under the weight of the yoke,
hangs and sways a basket of reeds,
a child's cradle;
And behind the yoke stride
a man who leans towards the earth
and a woman who, into the open furrows,
throws the seed.
Under a cloud of carmine and flame,
in the liquid green gold of the setting,
their shadows grow monstrous.

IV

Naked is the earth
and the soul howls to the wan horizon
like a hungry she-wolf.
What do you seek,
poet, in the sunset?
Bitter going, for the path
weighs one down, the frozen wind,
and the coming night and the bitterness
of distance.... On the white path
the trunks of frustrate trees show black,
on the distant mountains
there is gold and blood. The sun dies....

What do you seek,
poet, in the sunset?

V

Silver hills and grey ploughed lands,
violet outcroppings of rock
through which the Duero traces
its curve like a cross-bow
about Soria,
dark oak-w