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,