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.
40
