So often when our wan blue dusk wears thin We might forget the city edging close Upon our Loma meadows. Then Black Rose And Julie, sauntering down rue-paths, begin Their faintly jangled, hesitant small din -- Monotonous half-hushed adagios Inviting sleep -- and pastoral repose Enfolds long dreams of peace the night within. They do not browse alone, this hobbled pair Beside the sage brush. That reluctant bell Recalls ten thousand roaming herds that were A hundred years ago! Its stridours tell How from vaquero's lips a Spanish air Oft on old Loma evenings warmly fell. |