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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.  The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes.  1917.
 
The Bulls
By Charles Marie René Leconte de Lisle (1818–1894)
 
From ‘Poémes Barbares’: Translation of Thomas Walsh

THE SEA’S broad desert makes a bar of gold
Against the blue of heaven’s unruffled fold.
Alone, a roseate loiterer in the sky
Wreathes like a languid reptile stretched on high
Above the surging of the mountain-chain.        5
O’er the savannah breathes a dreamy strain
To where the bulls, with massive horns high dressed
And shining coat, deep eye and muscled breast,
Crop at their will the salt grass of the coast.
Two negroes of Antongil, still engrossed        10
In the long day’s dull stupor, at their ease
With chin in hands and elbows on their knees,
Smoke their black pipes. But in the changing sky
The herd’s fierce chieftain scents the nightfall nigh,
Lifts his square muzzle flecked with silver foam        15
And bellows o’er the sea his summons home.
 
 
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