  O golden day, wherein at last, Long leagues and wintry overpast, I stand beneath a sky as blue As April violets drenched in dew, And live within a dream come true! From rosy-berried pepper-trees The winds blow spicy fragrances; The palms sway softly to and fro, And down below, Between the glossy leaves of these, The sparkling, yellow sunbeams steep The mission garden, where the bees Are hoarding deep Of heliotrope that hangs the wall As for some princely festival, While white and tall Bright lilies bloom in grace untold, And those rare roses, passing all In splendor, called “The Cloth of Gold!” O heart, my heart, throb high and fast With rapture! for how couldst thou know Amid the far-off frost and snow And shrill and chill the north-winds blow, How couldst thou know December heavens anywhere Could show such rare Such tender and divinest guise, That earth and air Could weave such strange, resistless spell As this that folds us flower-wise At sweet San Gabriel! San Gabriel! the holy words Fall soft as music on the ear; I think they are as sweet to hear As any song of summer birds; And harkening them, the while in clear, Pure, quivering notes, The ancient bells begin to chime, In shadowy-wise before me floats A vision of the vanished time. I see again The little band from sunny Spain, Those godly ones, and full of grace, And without stain, Who, heeding neither toil nor pain, Desiring men of every race, That such might see sweet Jesus’ face, And that at length the Lord might reign Among all peoples, even so, Sought in the wilderness this place, And consecrated, long ago. Their hands upreared in loving zeal, My heart goes forth to them the while, Those faithful fathers, true and leal! How oft along each cloistered aisle They counted o’er and o’er their beads, While in this garden, unawares, The fragrant flowers sowed their seeds. —And richly as the flowers, the prayers Bore fruit in gentle deeds! In arched embrasures, lifted high Against the sky, The bells in clear-cut beauty show; And loftier still, surmounting all, And blessing thus the ancient wall, A cross,—and on its summit, lo! A slender bird with pearly breast Sits peacefully at rest! Ah me! Ah me! I know not why This little bird with folded wings, The cross, the tender azure sky, Their pure, exceeding beauty brings Swift tears, and smites my heart, till I Am almost fain To hide mine eyes for very pain! Yet though thus for a little space I bow my face, Nor any grace Of rose or lily can I see, I know the while that memory, Upon my heart is graving deep Each least, sweet loveliness, to keep Through all the coming years for me. And it shall be, In afterwhiles, when far away, When wintry skies are bleak and gray And no birds sing, I shall grow glad remembering The sweetness of this scarlet day.
|
|
