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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=540782" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On A View Of Pasadena From The Hills</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=540782" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">From the high terrace porch I watch the dawn. <br>No light appears, though dark has mostly gone, <br>Sunk from the cold and monstrous stone. The hills <br>Lie naked but not light. The darkness spills <br>Down the remoter gulleys; pooled, will stay <br>Too low to melt, not yet alive with day. <br>Below the windows, the lawn, matted deep <br>Under its close-cropped tips with dewy sleep, <br>Gives off a faint hush, all its plushy swarm <br>Alive with coolness reaching to be warm. <br>Gray windows at my back, the massy frame <br>Dull with the blackness that has not a name; <br>But down below, the garden is still young, <br>Of five years’ growth, perhaps, and terrace-hung, <br>Drop by slow drop of seeping concrete walls. <br>Such are the bastions of our pastorals! </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=540782" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><br>Here are no palms! They once lined country ways, <br>Where old white houses glared down dusty days, <br>With small round towers, blunt-headed through small trees. <br>Those towers are now the hiving place of bees. <br>The palms were coarse; their leaves hung thick with dust; <br>The roads were muffled deep. But now deep rust <br>Has fastened on the wheels that labored then. <br>Peace to all such, and to all sleeping men! <br>I lived my childhood there, a passive dream <br>In the expanse of that recessive scheme. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=540782" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><br>Slow air, slow fire! O deep delay of Time! <br>That summer crater smoked like slaking lime, <br>The hills so dry, so dense the underbrush, <br>That where I pushed my way the giant hush <br>Was changed to soft explosion as the sage <br>Broke down to powdered ash, the sift of age, <br>And fell along my path, a shadowy rift. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=540782" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><br>On these rocks now no burning ashes drift; <br>Mowed lawn has crept along the granite bench; <br>The yellow blossoms of acacia drench <br>The dawn with pollen; and, with waxen green, <br>The long leaves of the eucalypti screen <br>The closer hills from view—lithe, tall, and fine, <br>And nobly clad with youth, they bend and shine. <br>The small dark pool, jutting with living rock, <br>Trembles at every atmospheric shock, <br>Blurred to its depth with the cold living ooze. <br>From cloudy caves, heavy with summer dews, <br>The shyest and most tremulous beings stir, <br>The pulsing of their fins a lucent blur, <br>That, like illusion, glances off the view. <br>The pulsing mouths, like metronomes, are true, </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=540782" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><br>This is my father’s house, no homestead here <br>That I shall live in, but a shining sphere <br>Of glass and glassy moments, frail surprise, <br>My father’s phantasy of Paradise; <br>Which melts upon his death, which he attained <br>With loss of heart for every step he gained. <br>Too firmly gentle to displace the great, <br>He crystallized this vision somewhat late; <br>Forbidden now to climb the garden stair, <br>He views the terrace from a window chair. <br>His friends, hard shaken by some twenty years, <br>Tremble with palsy and with senile fears, <br>In their late middle age gone cold and gray. <br>Fine men, now broken. That the vision stay, <br>They spend astutely their depleted breath, <br>With tired ironic faces wait for death. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=540782" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><br>Below the garden the hills fold away. <br>Deep in the valley, a mist fine as spray, <br>Ready to shatter into spinning light, <br>Conceals the city at the edge of night. <br>The city, on the tremendous valley floor, <br>Draws its dream deeper for an instant more, <br>Superb on solid loam, and breathing deep, <br>Poised for a moment at the edge of sleep. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=540782" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><br>Cement roads mark the hills, wide, bending free <br>Of cliff and headland. Dropping toward the sea, <br>Through suburb after suburb, vast ravines <br>Swell to the summer drone of fine machines. <br>The driver, melting down the distance here, <br>May cast in flight the faint hoof of a deer <br>Or pass the faint head set perplexedly. <br>And man-made stone outgrows the living tree, <br>And at its rising, air is shaken, men <br>Are shattered, and the tremor swells again, <br>Extending to the naked salty shore, <br>Rank with the sea, which crumbles evermore.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Yvor+Winters">Yvor Winters</a></strong></div>