Hold fast to dreams 
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

What is there within this beggar lad
That I can neither hear nor feel nor see,
That I can neither know nor understand
And still it calls to me?

Is not he but a shadow in the sun —
A bit of clay, brown, ugly, given life?
And yet he plays upon his flute a wild free tune
As if Fate had not bled him with her knife!

The moon still sends its mellow light
Through the purple blackness of the night; 
The morning star is palely bright
                    Before the dawn. 

The sun still shines just as before; 
The rose still grows beside my door, 
                    But you have gone. 

The sky is blue and the robin sings; 
The butterflies dance on rainbow wings
                   Though I am sad. 

In all the earth no joy can be; 
Happiness comes no more to me, 
                   For you are dead. 

How quiet 
It is in this sick room 
Where on the bed 
A silent woman lies between two lovers—
Life and Death, 
And all three covered with a sheet of pain. 

He carries
His own strength
And his own laughter,
His own today
And his own hereafter,––
This strong young sailor
Of the wide seas.

What is money for?
To spend, he says.
And wine?
To drink.
And women?
To love.
And today?
For joy.
And tomorrow?
For joy.
And the green sea
For strength,
And the brown land
For laughter.
And nothing hereafter.

^{A Cuban Portrait} 

The shadows 
Of too many nights of love 
Have fallen beneath your eyes. 
Your eyes, 
So full of pain and passion,
So full of lies. 
So full of pain and passion, 
Soledad, 
So deeply scarred, 
So still with silent cries.