The Mexic native fears not fang
Of poisonous serpent, vine, nor bee,
If he may soothe the baleful pang
With juices of this "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!
A SUMMER DAY.
Fade not, sweet day!
Another hour like this—
So full of tranquil bliss—
May never come my way,
I walk in paths so shadowed and so cold:
But stay thou, darling hour,
Nor stint thy gracious power
To smile away the clouds that me enfold:
Oh stay! when thou art gone,
I shall be lost and lone.
Lost, lone, and sad;
And troubled more and more,
By the dark ways, and sore,
In which my feet are led;—
Alas, my heart, it was not always so!
Therefore, O happy day,
Haste not to fade away,
Nor let pale night chill all thy tender glow—
Thy rosy mists, that steep
The violet hills in sleep—
