A Memory of Santa Barbara

Yea, Santa Barbara is fair;
A sunny clime and sweet to touch,
For tamer men of gentler mien,
But as for me—another scene.
A land below the Alps I know,
Set well with grapes and girt with much
Of woodland beauty; I shall share
My rides by night below the light
Of Mauna Loa, ride below
The steep and starry Hebron height;
Shall lift my hands in many lands,
See South Sea palm, see Northland fir,
See white-wing'd swans, see red-bill'd doves;
See many lands and many loves,
But never more the face of her.

And what her name or where the place
Of her who makes my Mecca's prayer,
Concerns you not; not any trace
Of entrance to my temple's shrine
Remains. The memory is mine,
And none shall pass the portals there.

The present! take it, hold it thine,
But that one hour out from all
The years that are, or yet shall fall,
I pluck it out, I name it mine,
And whistle by the rest, and laugh
To see it blown about as chaff;
That hour bound in sunny sheaves,
With tassell'd shocks of golden shine,
That hour, wound in scarlet leaves,
Is mine. I stretch a hand and swear
An oath that breaks into a prayer;
By heaven, it is wholly mine!

I see the gold and purple gleam
Of autumn leaves, a reach of seas,
A silent rider like a dream
Moves by, a mist of mysteries,
And these are mine, and only these,
Yet they be more in my esteem,
Than silver'd sails on coral'd seas.

Let red-leaf'd boughs sweet fruits bestow,
Let fame of foreign lands be mine,
Let blame of faithless men befall;
It matters nothing; over all,
One hour arches like a bow
Of promise bent in many hues,
That tide nor time shall bid decline;
Or storms of all the years refuse.
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