Antonio Machado
Songs of the High Country
Soria, in blue mountains, On the fields of violet, How often I’ve dreamed of you On the plain of flowers, Where the Guadalquiviŕ runs Past golden orange-trees To the sea.
Last Night As I Was Sleeping
Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt-marvelous error!- That a spring was breaking Out in my heart. I said: Along which secret aqueduct, Oh water, are you coming to me, Water of a
Fields of Soria
Hills of silver plate, Grey heights, dark red rocks Through which the Duero bends Its crossbow arc Round Soria, shadowed oaks, Stone dry-lands, naked mountains, White roads and river poplars, Twilights of Soria, warlike
To Jośe Marίa Palacio
Palacio, good friend, Is spring there Showing itself on branches of black poplars By the roads and river? On the steeps Of the high Duero, spring is late, But so soft and lovely when
Passageways
Who set, between those rocks like cinder, To show the honey of dream, That golden broom, Those blue rosemaries? Who painted the purple mountains And the saffron, sunset sky? The hermitage, the beehives, The
The Wind, One Brilliant Day
The wind, one brilliant day, called To my soul with an odor of jasmine. “In return for the odor of my jasmine, I’d like all the odor of your roses.” “I have no roses;
Guadarrama
Guadarrama, is it you, old friend, Mountains white and gray That I used to see painted against the blue Those afternoons of the old days in Madrid? Up your deep ravines And past your
Has My Heart Gone To Sleep?
Has my heart gone to sleep? Have the beehives of my dreams Stopped working, the waterwheel Of the mind run dry, Scoops turning empty, Only shadow inside? No, my heart is not asleep. It