Classic Poem

Was I awake, or dreaming?
And was I east, or west?
And which was only seeming —
Which real, and which but guessed?

The dawn with rosy flushes
Bathes the Atlantic shore,
The maples are all blushes,
The oaks are brown and hoar.

And in the autumn morning
Rises the village spire,
And hails the earth adorning
Herself in robes of fire.

Six solemn strokes sonorous,
The clock the hour tells,
And suddenly a chorus
Of silver Mission bells.

The sweet bells of the Mission
Of Santa Barbara fair
Ring in the glad fruition
And call to morning prayer.

'Twas matin bells that sounded
In air as soft as balm,
And through live-oaks resounded
And roused Pacific's calm.

Was I awake, or dreaming?
And was I East, or West?
And which was only seeming,
Which real, and which but guessed?