Classic Poem

These many years the hoary missions lie
Under the turquiose sky
Smiling, like white-haired priests asleep,
Who dream of happy memories.
And still the blue Sierras keep
Their ancient guard above the flow'ring orange trees.
When softly, like a dusky cowl,
The odorous night wraps round the day,
And in the purple deep
The dying sun is laid away,
His only requiem a mournful owl,
Alone, and owl-like, mourning unremembered wrong.
Then rings the ghostly Angelus so sweet
That, shattered by a song,
The years turn back to Spanish nights
Two hundred years ago; and from the street
The mellow twang of the guitar
Some dark-eyed belle invites
Out into the star-gardens of the sky
And passes in the distance down the road
From Santa Barbara to Mirimar.