TARDE DEL TRÓPICO NIGHTFALL IN THE TROPICS
Rubén Darío tr. Thomas Walsh
Es la tarde gris y triste.
Viste el mar de terciopelo
y el cielo profundo viste
de duelo.

Del abismo se levanta
la queja amarga y sonora
La onda, cuando el viento canta,
llora,

Los violines de la bruma
saludan al sol que muere.
Salmodia la blanca espuma:
¡Miserere!

La armonía el cielo inunda,
y la brisa va a llevar
la canción triste y profunda
del mar.

Del clarín del horizonte
brota sinfonía rara,
como si la voz del monte
vibrara.

Cual si fuese lo invisible...
cual si fuese el rudo són
que diese al viento un terrible
león.
There is twilight grey and gloomy
Where the sea its velvet trails;
Out across the heavens roomy
Draw the veils.

Bitter and sonorous rises
The complaint from out the deeps,
And the wave the wind surprises
Weeps.

Viols there amid the gloaming
Hail the sun that dies,
And the white spray in its foaming
"Miserere" sighs.

Harmony the heavens embraces,
And the breeze is lifting free
To the chanting of the races
Of the sea.

Clarions of horizons calling
Strike a symphony most rare,
As if mountain voices calling
Vibrate there.

As though dread, unseen, were waking,
As though awesome echoes bore
On the distant breeze's quaking
The lion's roar.

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