The skulking robber drops his eyes,
And signs himself with holy cross,
If, far between him and the skies,
He sees its pearly blossoms toss.
The wanderer halts to gaze upon
The lovely vision, far or near,
And smiles and sighs to think of one
He wishes for the moment here.
The Mexic native fears not fang
Of poisonous serpent, vine, or bee,
If he may soothe the baleful pang
With juices of this "holy tree."
How do we all, in life's wild ways,
Which oft we traverse lost and lone,
Need that which heavenward draws the gaze,
Some Palo Santo of our own!
THE PASSING OF ALICE.
In the city, hot and breathless city,
At her open casement wide and high,
With a face that moves our hearts to pity,
Leans pale Alice, gazing on the sky;
Gazing out above the housetops dreary,
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