On skies of tropic evening, broad and beryl-green,
Above a tranquil sea of molten malachite,
With flare of scarlet wings in long and level flight,
The soundless, fleet flamingoes pass to isles unseen.
They pass, and disappear, where darkening palms indent
The horizon, underneath some high and tawny star,
Lost in the sunset gulfs of glowing cinnabar,
Where sinks the painted moon, with prows of orpiment.
