JOSE MARTI

JOSE MARTI HOME
JOSE MARTI A Sincere Man I A A sincere man I am From the land where palm trees grow, And I want before I die My soul's verses to bestow. I'm a traveller to all parts, And a newcomer to none: I am art among the arts, With the mountains I am one. I know how to name and class All the strange flowers that grow; I know every blade of grass, Fatal lie and sublime woe. I have seen through dead of night Upon my head softly fall, Rays formed of the purest light From beauty celestial. I have seen wings that were surging From beautiful women's shoulders, And seen butterflies emerging From the refuse heap that moulders. I have known a man to live With a dagger at his side, And never once the name give Of she by whose hand he died. Twice, for an instant, did I My soul's reflection espy: Twice: when my poor father died And when she bade me good-bye. I trembled once, when I flung The vineyard gate, and to my dread, The wicked hornet had stung My little girl on the forehead. I rejoiced once and felt lucky The day that my jailer came To read the death warrant to me That bore his tears and my name. I hear a sigh across the earth, I hear a sigh over the deep: It is no sign reaching my hearth, But my son waking from sleep. If they say I have obtained The pick of the jeweller's trove, A good friend is what I've gained And I have put aside love. I have seen across the skies A wounded eagle still flying; I know the cubby where lies The snake of its venom dying. I know that the world is weak And must soon fall to the ground, Then the gentle brook will speak Above the quiet profound. While trembling with joy and dread, I have touched with hand so bold A once-bright star that fell dead From heaven at my threshold. On my brave heart is engraved The sorrow hidden from all eyes: The son of a land enslaved, Lives for it, suffers and dies. All is beautiful and right, All is as music and reason; And all, like diamonds, is light That was coal before its season. I know when fools are laid to rest Honor and tears will abound, And that of all fruits, the best Is left to rot in holy ground. Without a word, the pompous muse I've set aside, and understood: From a withered branch, I choose To hang my doctoral hood. If I A Pleasant Keepsake If I a pleasant keepsake On leaving this world may bear, Father profound, I would take A lock of your silver hair. If allowed for mercy's sake One more favor to implore: The painter's portrait I'd take Of the sister I adore. Could I to a treasure cling From this life in that foretold, The hidden tresses I'd bring I keep in a chest of gold I Dream Awake Day and night I always dream with open eyes And on top of the foaming waves Of the wide turbulent sea, And on the rolling Desert sands, And merrily riding on the gentle neck Of a mighty lion, Monarch of my heart, I always see a floating child Who is calling me! I Have A White Rose To Tend I have a white rose to tend In July as in January; I give it to the true friend Who offers his frank hand to me. And for the cruel one whose blows Break the heart by which I live, Thistle nor thorn do I give: For him, too, I have a white rose

A Sincere Man I A

A sincere man I am
From the land where palm trees grow,
And I want before I die
My soul's verses to bestow.
I'm a traveller to all parts,
And a newcomer to none:
I am art among the arts,
With the mountains I am one.
I know how to name and class
All the strange flowers that grow;
I know every blade of grass,
Fatal lie and sublime woe.
I have seen through dead of night
Upon my head softly fall,
Rays formed of the purest light
From beauty celestial.
I have seen wings that were surging
From beautiful women's shoulders,
And seen butterflies emerging
From the refuse heap that moulders.
I have known a man to live
With a dagger at his side,
And never once the name give
Of she by whose hand he died.
Twice, for an instant, did I
My soul's reflection espy:
Twice: when my poor father died
And when she bade me good-bye.
I trembled once, when I flung
The vineyard gate, and to my dread,
The wicked hornet had stung
My little girl on the forehead.
I rejoiced once and felt lucky
The day that my jailer came
To read the death warrant to me
That bore his tears and my name.
I hear a sigh across the earth,
I hear a sigh over the deep:
It is no sign reaching my hearth,
But my son waking from sleep.
If they say I have obtained
The pick of the jeweller's trove,
A good friend is what I've gained
And I have put aside love.
I have seen across the skies
A wounded eagle still flying;
I know the cubby where lies
The snake of its venom dying.
I know that the world is weak
And must soon fall to the ground,
Then the gentle brook will speak
Above the quiet profound.
While trembling with joy and dread,
I have touched with hand so bold
A once-bright star that fell dead
From heaven at my threshold.
On my brave heart is engraved
The sorrow hidden from all eyes:
The son of a land enslaved,
Lives for it, suffers and dies.
All is beautiful and right,
All is as music and reason;
And all, like diamonds, is light
That was coal before its season.
I know when fools are laid to rest
Honor and tears will abound,
And that of all fruits, the best
Is left to rot in holy ground.
Without a word, the pompous muse
I've set aside, and understood:
From a withered branch, I choose
To hang my doctoral hood.

If I A Pleasant Keepsake

If I a pleasant keepsake
On leaving this world may bear,
Father profound, I would take
A lock of your silver hair.
If allowed for mercy's sake
One more favor to implore:
The painter's portrait I'd take
Of the sister I adore.
Could I to a treasure cling
From this life in that foretold,
The hidden tresses I'd bring
I keep in a chest of gold

I Dream Awake

Day and night
I always dream with open eyes
And on top of the foaming waves
Of the wide turbulent sea,
And on the rolling
Desert sands,
And merrily riding on the gentle neck
Of a mighty lion,
Monarch of my heart,
I always see a floating child
Who is calling me!

I Have A White Rose To Tend

I have a white rose to tend
In July as in January;
I give it to the true friend
Who offers his frank hand to me.
And for the cruel one whose blows
Break the heart by which I live,
Thistle nor thorn do I give:
For him, too, I have a white rose