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 tinkling tells...
Dear marshes, by no hand of man
Laboriously sown,
My river clasps you in its arms
And claims you for its own!
It laughs, and laughs, and twinkles on
Across the reedy soil,
That heed of harvest vexes not,
Nor need of any toil...
Not lips of mine have ever said:
“Would God that I were dead!”
Nay, cruel griefs! ye cannot break
My love of life; nor can ye make
Oblivion blest in any wise,
Nor death seem sweet for sorrow’s sake.
Life! life! my every pulse outcries...
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...
O little buds, break not so fast!
The spring’s but new.
The skies will yet be brighter blue,
And sunny too.
I would you might thus sweetly last
Till this glad season’s overpast,
Nor hasten through.
It is so exquisite to feel...
