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II

Concerning the Thunderstorms of Yucatan

In Yucatan, the Maya sonneteersOf the Caribbean amphitheatre,In spite of hawk and falcon, green toucanAnd jay, still to the night-bird made their plea,As if raspberry tanagers in palms,High up in orange air, were barbarous.But Crispin was too destitute to findIn any commonplace the sought-for aid.He was a man made vivid by the sea,A man come out of luminous traversing,Much trumpeted, made desperately clear,Fresh from discoveries of tidal skies,To whom oracular rockings gave no rest.Into a savage color he went on.
How greatly had he grown in his demesne,This auditor of insects! He that sawThe stride of vanishing autumn in a parkBy way of decorous melancholy; heThat wrote his couplet yearly to the spring,As dissertation of profound delight,Stopping, on voyage, in a land of snakes,Found his vicissitudes had much enlargedHis apprehension, made him intricate

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