| |
| IN the deep woods of Mexico, | |
| Where screams the painted paroquet, | |
| Where mocking-birds flit to and fro, | |
| With borrowed notes they half forget; | |
| Where brilliant flowers and poisonous vines | 5 |
| Are mingled in a firm embrace, | |
| And the same gaudy plant entwines | |
| Some reptile of a venomed race; | |
| Where spreads the Itos’ chilly shade, | |
| Benumbing, even in summer’s heat, | 10 |
| The weary traveller who hath laid | |
| Himself to noonday slumbers sweet; | |
| Where skulks unseen the beast of prey, | |
| The native robber glares and hides, | |
| And treacherous death keeps watch alway | 15 |
| For him who flies or him who bides. | |
| |
| In the deep tropic woods there grows | |
| A tree whose tall and silvery bole | |
| Above the dusky forest shows | |
| As shining as a saintly soul | 20 |
| Among the souls of sinful men, | |
| Lifting its milk-white flowers to heaven, | |
| And breathing incense out, as when | |
| Earth’s almost sinless ones are shriven. | |
| |
| The skulking robber drops his eyes, | 25 |
| And signs himself with holy cross, | |
| If far, between him and the skies, | |
| He sees its pearly blossoms toss: | |
| The wanderer halts to gaze upon | |
| The lovely vision far and near, | 30 |
| And smiles and sighs to think of one | |
| He wishes for the moment here. | |
| |
| Nor Mexic native fears the fang, | |
| The poisoned vine, the venomed bee, | |
| If he may soothe the baleful pang | 35 |
| With juices from his “holy tree.” | |
| |
| How do we all in life’s wild ways, | |
| Which oft we traverse lost and lone, | |
| Need that which heavenward draws the gaze, | |
| Some Palo Santo of our own! | 40 |
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