Page:Satanella (1932).pdf/52

 With a hand her forehead shading,

Satanella holds her laughter

And a while with solemn features

She examines the procession

From the town as it approaches

Winding like a snake through meadows.

To this child of boundless deserts

Who but knew the clear-toned cymbal,

Songs of winds, and but the people

That she grew with from her childhood,

Laughable to her this picture,

These old monks with long black garments,

Monks, whose large white shining bald-pates

Glistened bright beneath the sunshine;

And the clergy in chasubles

Holding golden incense burners

From which rose thick, smoky columns;

But more laughable than all these

Seems the bishop with the mitre,

Being fanned with ostrich feathers

While he blesses with his monstrance.

As if stunned, a while she stood there

While her restless gaze was roving;

Then in new-born streams of laughter

Seemed to melt her speechless wonder.