In Southern California

Where the cocoa and cactus are neighbors, Where the fig and the fir tree are one; Where the brave corn is lifting bent sabres And flashing them far in the sun; Where maidens blush red in their tresses Of night, and retreat to advance, And the dark, sweeping eyelash expresses Deep passion, half hushd in a trance; Where the fig is in leaf, where the blossom Of orange is fragrant as fair, Santa Barbaras balm in the bosom, Her sunny, soft winds in the hair; Where the grape is most luscious; where laden Long branches bend double with gold; Los Angelos leans like a maiden, Red, blushing, half shy, and half bold. Where passion was born and where poets Are deeper in silence than song, A love knows a love, and may know its Reward, yet may never know wrong. Where passion was born and where blushes Gave birth to my songs of the South, And a song is a love-tale, and rushes, Unchid, through the red of the mouth; Where an Adam in Eden reposes, I repose, I am glad, and take wine In the clambering, redolent roses, And under my fig and my vine.