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From Off the Road Database
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O
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<p>And yet she knows obstruction is in vain:<br />
We will not be put off the final goal<br />
We have it hidden in us to attain,<br />
Not though we have to seize earth by the pole
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<p>The tree the tempest with a crash of wood<br />
Throws down in front of us is not to bar<br />
Our passage to our journey's end for good,<br />
But just to ask us who we think we are
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<p>Slow their floating step, but tireless, terraced down the great Plateau. <br />
Towards our ways of steam and wireless, silver-paced the brook-beds go. <br />
Past the ladder-walled Pueblos, past the orchards, pear and quince, <br />
Where the back-locked river’s ebb flows, miles and miles the valley glints, <br />
Shining backwards, singing downwards, towards horizons blue and bay. <br />
All the roofs the roads ensconce so dream of visions far away— <br />
Santa Cruz and Ildefonso, Santa Clara, Santa Fé. <br />
Ancient, sacred fears and faiths, ancient, sacred faiths and fears— <br />
Some were real, some were wraiths—Indian, Franciscan years, <br />
Built the Khivas, swung the bells; while the wind sang plain and free, <br />
"Turn your eyes from visioned hells!—look as far as you can see!" <br />
In the Santa Clara Valley, far away and far away, <br />
Dying dreams divide and dally, crystal-terraced waters sally— <br />
Linger towards another day, far and far away—far away.
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<p>In the Santa Clara Valley, far away and far away, <br />
Cool-breathed waters dip and dally, linger towards another day—<br />
Far and far away—far away.
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<p>As you follow where you find them, up along the high Plateau, <br />
In the hollows left behind them Spanish chapels fade below—<br />
Shaded court and low corrals. In the vale the goat-herd browses. <br />
Hollyhocks are seneschals by the little buff-walled houses. <br />
Over grassy swale and alley have you ever seen it so— <br />
Up the Santa Clara Valley, riding on the Great Plateau? <br />
Past the ladder-walled Pueblos, past the orchards, pear and quince, <br />
Where the trenchèd waters’ ebb flows, miles and miles the valley glints, <br />
Shining backwards, singing downwards towards horizons blue and bay. <br />
All the haunts the bluffs ensconce so breathe of visions far away, <br />
As you ride near Ildefonso back again to Santa Fé. <br />
Pecos, mellow with the years, tall-walled Taos—who can know <br />
Half the storied faiths and fears haunting Green New Mexico? <br />
Only from her open places down arroyos blue and bay, <br />
One wild grace of many graces dallies towards another day. <br />
Where her yellow tufa crumbles, something stars and grasses know, <br />
Something true, that crowns and humbles, shimmers from the Great Plateau: <br />
Blows where cool-paced waters dally from the stillness of Puyé, <br />
Down the Santa Clara Valley through the world from far away—<br />
Far and far away—far away.
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<p>They would steal old master's horses,<br />
Fat and sleek and full of spirit;<br />
Steal them while that he was sleeping,<br />
Soundly sleeping in his mansion;<br />
From the stable would they steal them,<br />
Ride them upward through the valley<br />
To the place of fun and frolic,<br />
Till they reached the very doorway<br />
Of the place of fun and frolic.<br />
There a score or more of Negroes<br />
Would assemble in the night-time,<br />
Would assemble for their pleasure,<br />
After toiling hard the day long,<br />
After toiling hard the week long.<br />
Thus they whiled away their sorrow,<br />
Thus they made their burdens lighter,<br />
Thus they had their recreation,<br />
Through a life that was a struggle.
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<p>"You say it's filled with those who play,<br />
And more are coming every day,<br />
Yet, there is always room to spare.<br />
Please tell me more of heaven out there."
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<p>"The rising sun you say is fine,<br />
And the early morning like red wine.<br />
To be sure," he said, "I must declare,<br />
From what you write me heaven is there."
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<p>"If your highways all are paved so grand,<br />
And stars so bright o'er all the land,<br />
The mountain streams beyond compare,<br />
Then surely heaven must be out there."
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<p><span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 11em;"> <i>—The Car with Character.</i></span>
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<p>We wrote him, "We can tell no more,<br />
But when you reach this western shore,<br />
Studebakers you'll see them everywhere."<br />
Then, he said, "Heaven is there."
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<p>He said, when he answered in reply,<br />
"I thought that heaven was up on high.<br />
From what you say of your state so fair,<br />
I think that heaven must be out there."
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<p>"I thought that heaven was free from toil,<br />
But your letter says you till the soil.<br />
Yet, if you have such wonderful air,<br />
Where is heaven if not out there?"
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<p>We wrote to a friend back east one day,<br />
And told him all we thought to say.<br />
We filled a dozen pages or more,<br />
Of the glories of this far western shore.
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<p>"Have you received your starry crown?"<br />
He said, "Your cross, have you laid down,<br />
Do all the angels have blonde hair,<br />
In this heaven you write me of out there?"
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<p>IT snowed in spring on earth so dry and warm<br />
The flakes could find no landing place to form.<br />
Hordes spent themselves to make it wet and cold,<br />
And still they failed of any lasting hold.<br />
They made no white impression on the black.<br />
They disappeared as if earth sent them back.<br />
Not till from separate flakes they changed at night<br />
To almost strips and tapes of ragged white<br />
Did grass and garden ground confess it snowed,<br />
And all go back to winter but the road.<br />
Next day the scene was piled and puffed and dead.<br />
The grass lay flattened under one great tread.<br />
Borne down until the end almost took root,<br />
The rangey bough anticipated fruit<br />
With snowballs cupped in every opening bud.<br />
The road alone maintained itself in mud,<br />
Whatever its secret was of greater heat<br />
From inward fires or brush of passing feet.
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<p>In spring more mortal singers than belong<br />
To any one place cover us with song.<br />
Thrush, bluebird, blackbird, sparrow, and robin throng;<br />
Some to go further north to Hudson's Bay,<br />
Some that have come too far north back away,<br />
Really a very few to build and stay.<br />
Now was seen how these liked belated snow.<br />
The fields had nowhere left for them to go;<br />
They'd soon exhausted all there was in flying;<br />
The trees they'd had enough of with once trying<br />
And setting off their heavy powder load.<br />
They could find nothing open but the road.<br />
So there they let their lives be narrowed in<br />
By thousands the bad weather made akin.<br />
The road became a channel running flocks<br />
Of glossy birds like ripples over rocks.<br />
I drove them under foot in bits of flight<br />
That kept the ground, almost disputing right<br />
Of way with me from apathy of wing,<br />
A talking twitter all they had to sing.<br />
A few I must have driven to despair<br />
Made quick asides, but having done in air<br />
A whir among white branches great and small<br />
As in some too much carven marble hall<br />
Where one false wing beat would have brought down all,<br />
Came tamely back in front of me, the Drover,<br />
To suffer the same driven nightmare over.<br />
One such storm in a lifetime couldn't teach them<br />
That back behind pursuit it couldn't reach them;<br />
None flew behind me to be left alone.
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<p>Well, something for a snowstorm to have shown<br />
The country's singing strength thus brought together,<br />
That though repressed and moody with the weather<br />
Was none the less there ready to be freed<br />
And sing the wildflowers up from root and seed.
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<p>The bread we earn by sweat of the brow,<br />
Is bread most blessed we must allow.<br />
It is far sweeter may all confess<br />
Than the tasteless loaf of idleness.
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