Page:Poems by Frances Fuller Victor.djvu/80

 PALO SANTO.

In the deep woods of Mexico,

Where screams the painted paroquet,

And mocking-birds flit to and fro

With borrowed notes they half forget;

Where brilliant flowers and noxinoes vines

Are mingled in a firm embrace,

And the same gaudy plant entwines

Some reptile of a poisonous race;

Where spreads the itos' icy shade,

Benumbing, even in summer's heat,

The thoughtless traveler 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

On him who flies, or he who bides:

In these deep tropic woods there grows

A tree, whose tall and silvery bole

Above the dusky forest shows,

As shining as a saintly soul

Among the souls of sinful men,

Lifting its milk-white flowers to heaven,

And breathing incense out, as when

The passing saints of earth are shriven.

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