Edith Wyatt

IN the Santa Clara Valley, far away and far away,

Cool-breathed waters dip and dally, linger towards another day—

Far and far away—far away.

Slow their floating step, but tireless, terraced down the great Plateau.

Towards our ways of steam and wireless, silver-paced the brook-beds go.

Past the ladder-walled Pueblos, past the orchards, pear and quince,

Where the back-locked river’s ebb flows, miles and miles the valley glints,

Shining backwards, singing downwards, towards horizons blue and bay.

All the roofs the roads ensconce so dream of visions far away—

Santa Cruz and Ildefonso, Santa Clara, Santa Fé.

Ancient, sacred fears and faiths, ancient, sacred faiths and fears—

Some were real, some were wraiths—Indian, Franciscan years,

Built the Khivas, swung the bells; while the wind sang plain and free,

“Turn your eyes from visioned hells!—look as far as you can see!”

In the Santa Clara Valley, far away and far away,

Dying dreams divide and dally, crystal-terraced waters sally—

Linger towards another day, far and far away—far away.

As you follow where you find them, up along the high Plateau,

In the hollows left behind them Spanish chapels fade below—

Shaded court and low corrals. In the vale the goat-herd browses.

Hollyhocks are seneschals by the little buff-walled houses.

Over grassy swale and alley have you ever seen it so—

Up the Santa Clara Valley, riding on the Great Plateau?

Past the ladder-walled Pueblos, past the orchards, pear and quince,

Where the trenchèd waters’ ebb flows, miles and miles the valley glints,

Shining backwards, singing downwards towards horizons blue and bay.

All the haunts the bluffs ensconce so breathe of visions far away,

As you ride near Ildefonso back again to Santa Fé.

Pecos, mellow with the years, tall-walled Taos—who can know

Half the storied faiths and fears haunting green New Mexico?

Only from her open places down arroyos blue and bay,

One wild grace of many graces dallies towards another day.

Where her yellow tufa crumbles, something stars and grasses know,

Something true, that crowns and humbles, shimmers from the Great Plateau:

Blows where cool-paced waters dally from the stillness of Puyé,

Down the Santa Clara Valley through the world from far away—

Far and far away—far away.