The Fervid Breath Of Our Flushed Southern May Is Sweet Upon The City'S Throat And Lips, As A Lover'S Whose Tired Arm Slips Listlessly Over The Shoulder Of A Queen. Far Away The River Melts In The Unseen. Oh, Beautiful Girl-City, How She Dips Her Feet In The Stream With A Touch That Is Half A Kiss And Half A Dream! Her Face Is Very Fair, With Flowers For Smiles And Sunlight In Her Hair. My Westland Flower-Town, How Serene She Is! Here On This Hill From Which I Look At Her, All Is Still As If A Worshipper Left At Some Shrine His Offering. Soft Winds Kiss My Cheek With A Slow Lingering. A Luring Whisper Where The Laurels Stir Wiles My Heart Back To Woodland-Ward Again. But Lo, Across The Sky The Sunset Couriers Run, And I Remain To Watch The Imperial Pageant Of The Sun Mock Me, An Impotent Cortez Here Below, With Splendors Of Its Vaster Mexico. O Eldorado Of The Templed Clouds! O Golden City Of The Western Sky! Not Like The Spaniard Would I Storm Thy Gates; Not Like The Babe Stretch Chubby Hands And Cry To Have Thee For A Toy; But Far From Crowds, Like My Faun Brother In The Ferny Glen, Peer From The Wood'S Edge While Thy Glory Waits, And In The Darkening Thickets Plunge Again.