In Mexico

The cactus towers, straight and tall, Through fallow fields of chapparal;   And here and there, in paths apart,   A dusky peon guides his cart,     And yokes of oxen journey slow,             In Mexico. And oft some distant thinkling tells Of muleteers, with wagon bells   That jangle sweet across the maize,   And green agave stalks that raise     Rich spires of blossoms, row on row,             In Mexico. Upon the whitened city walls The golden sunshine softly falls,   On archways set with orange trees,   On paven courts and balconies     Where trailing vines toss to and fro,             In Mexico. And patient little donkeys fare With laden saddle-bags, and bear   Through narrow ways quaint water-jars   Wreathed round with waxen lily stars     And scarlet poppy-buds that blow,             In Mexico. When twilight falls, more near and clear The tender southern skies appear,   And down green slopes of blooming limes   Come cascades of cathedral chimes;     And prayerful figures worship low,             In Mexico. A land of lutes and witching tones, Of silver, onyx, opal stones;   A lazy land, wherein all seems   Enchanted into endless dreams;     And never any need they know,             In Mexico, Of life’s unquiet, swift advance; But slipped into such gracious trance,   The restless world speeds on, unfelt,   Unheeded, as by those who dwelt     In olden ages, long ago,             In Mexico.