Luis De Camoens

You are spice islands. You are the golden bird
That soars until it dies. You are the night
Out of which towers Adamastor’s height,
And whence he spoke the enigmatic word.
You are the mystery beyond Cape Verde.
You are the ships bound on their sunward flight.
You are conceits baroque, quaint, recondite,
That capture the sublime — or the absurd.

You knew the rivers of Babylon where the harp
Was hanged upon the willows, heard surf roll
When the typhoon stormed the Cambodian shoal,
And, when the black squalls guttered out and ceased,
Cave us the Epic that retains the sharp
Tang of new oceans and the Gorgeous East.