Unbroken stillness where our canyons wind -- Before vast Spanish herds came here to browse; Before these hills made wander-ways for cows -- A breathlessness; while putting Time behind. Throughout that long old waiting and a kind Of awful spell among the rigid boughs Where ancient oaks from dreams could not arouse, Our Loma lay unnamed. Years, years declined. Who heard the ringing of Cabrillo's bells Where naught but lonely breezes breathed before? Who saw the magic lifting, quickened swells? Three frightened wild men leaped along this shore -- The first to greet those stately caravels, @3Victoria@1 and high @3San Salvador@1. |