Along the Mountain-Margin of Mescala

Hyacinths have added a floating edge;

Lantanas and zinnias interrupt the streets;

Weeds, hung with blossom, crowd to the roofless church

Where priests from Spain built better than their bones;

And in the tumbled plaza two old sages,

With Asian faces and with Indian hats,

Play, on a drum and a morning-glory pipe,

A jolly requiem for the Spanish dead.

MONTEZUMA

The sunset was a crown of spiked flame-

"Come, put me on if you can!" and no one could.

Even the mountain turned away its head

From coronation, wore but an ashen summit.