Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Americas: Vol. XXX. 1876–79.
El Palo Santo
By Frances Fuller Victor (1826–1902)I
Where screams the painted paroquet,
Where mocking-birds flit to and fro,
With borrowed notes they half forget;
Where brilliant flowers and poisonous vines
Are mingled in a firm embrace,
And the same gaudy plant entwines
Some reptile of a venomed race;
Where spreads the Itos’ chilly shade,
Benumbing, even in summer’s heat,
The weary traveller who hath laid
Himself to noonday slumbers sweet;
Where skulks unseen the beast of prey,
The native robber glares and hides,
And treacherous death keeps watch alway
For him who flies or him who bides.
A tree whose tall and silvery bole
Above the dusky forest shows
As shining as a saintly soul
Among the souls of sinful men,
Lifting its milk-white flowers to heaven,
And breathing incense out, as when
Earth’s almost sinless ones are shriven.
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 and near,
And smiles and sighs to think of one
He wishes for the moment here.
The poisoned vine, the venomed bee,
If he may soothe the baleful pang
With juices from his “holy tree.”
Which oft we traverse lost and lone,
Need that which heavenward draws the gaze,
Some Palo Santo of our own!