Here, in my living mouth,
Hear the living poem cry.
An ode for the dying South—
An ode to make you sigh.

You may sigh for love
Softly, and no one hears;
But for Mexico and my verses
I’ll allow you real tears.

For Mexico and my verses
Are lasting and abstract
Just as God is:
Ah, cold fact!

Facts will be taken from you
And you will live in spite of these
For Death approaches
With her singing armies.

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