Page:Face to Face With the Mexicans.djvu/401





silence of dead centuries That lie entombed on yonder hills Is his. These dreamful poppy seas Wave on; and all their languor fills The land; he lists, as if he heard God speak through some still gorgeous bird.

His babes about; the golden morn Strides godlike down the lofty hill: His wife and daughter grinding corn— "Two women grinding at a mill." Oh, mystery! This sun of old Was god! was god! and ample gold.

His golden hills had flocks of snow, His valley fields had fat increase. He saw his white sails fill and blow By restful isles of flower seas. The wood-dove sang his ceaseless loves— His harshest notes this soft wood dove's.