IN OLD TUCSON
In old Tucson, in old Tucson,How swift the happy days ran on!How warm the yellow sunshine beatAlong the white caliche street!The flat roofs caught a brighter sheenFrom fringing house leeks thick and green,And chiles drying in the sun;Splashes of crimson ’gainst the dunOf clay-spread roof and earthen floor;The squash vine climbing past the doorHeld in its yellow blossoms deepThe drowsy desert bees asleep.By one low wall, at one shut gate,The dusty roadway turned to wait;The pack mules loitered, passing whereThe muleteers had sudded careOf cinche and pack and harness bell.The oleander blossoms fell,Wind-drifted flecks of flame and snow;The fruited pomegranate swung low;And in the patio dim and coolThe gray doves flitted round the poolThat caught her image lightly asThe face that fades across a glass.In old Tucson, in old Tucson,The pool is dry, the face is gone.No dark eyes through the lattice shine,No slim brown hand steals through to mine;There where her oleander stoodThe twilight shadows bend and brood,And through the glossed pomegranate leavesThe wind remembering waits and grieves;Waits with me, knowing as I know,She may not choose to come and go—She who with life no more has partSave in the dim pool of my heart.And yet I wait, and yet I seeThe dream that was come back to me;The green leek springs above the roof,The dove that mourned alone, aloof,Flutes softly to her mate amongThe fig leaves where the fruit has hungSlow-purpling through the sunny days;And down the golden desert hazeThe mule bells tinkle faint and far;—But where her candle shone, a star;And where I watched her shadow fall,—The gray street and a crumbling wall.