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MEXICO CITY.
Some fragrant trees
By flower-sown seas
Where boats go up and down,
And a sense of rest
To the tired breast
In this beauteous Aztec town.
But the terrible thing in this Aztec town,
That will blow men's rest into stormiest skies,
Or whether they journey or they lie down—
These wide and these wonderful Spanish eyes!
Great walls about,
Gate posts without,
That prop these sapphire skies;
Two huge gate posts
Snow white, like ghosts—
Gate posts to this Paradise!
But, oh! turn back from the high-walled town;
There is trouble enough in this world, I surmise,
Without men riding in regiments down
To die by those perilous Spanish eyes!
—Joaquin Miller.
