The Magnolia
Deep in the wood, of scent and song the daughter,
Perfect and bright is the magnolia born;
White as a flake of foam upon still water,
White as soft fleece upon rough brambles torn.
Hers is a cup a workman might have fashioned
Of Grecian marble in an age remote.
Hers is a beauty perfect and impassioned,
As when a woman bares her rounded throat.
There is a tale of how the moon, her lover,
Holds her enchanted by some magic spell;
Something about a dove that broods above her,
Or dies within her breast—I cannot tell.
I cannot say where I have heard the story,
Upon what poet’s lips; but this I know:
Her heart is like a pearl’s, or like the glory
Of moonbeams frozen on the spotless snow.
José Santos Chocano
(Translated by John Pierrepont Rice)