Swung down in brilliant cluster or quaint festoon,
Your crimson bells drape pendulous drooping trees,
Where-through cool winds, from far, wide tropic seas,
Sing slow and low some wild, weird tempest rune,
While deep in your sweet wells, with lazy croon,
Delighted linger great, gold-dusted bees,
Who drain your honied nectar to the lees,
And feast till warned home by the rising moon.
On old, gray ruins, glooming lazy streams,
Your color burns as bright as in lost years,
When in your shadow, love fond vows would speak:
Your blooms have seen the sunlight's torrid beams
Shine on keen swords, and glitter in hot tears,
When warriors gathered round some dead cacique.