In a Canyon of the Santa Inez

Swift mountain-water purling far below me,
Stupendous granite piercing high above,
The sea spread out in lucent grey behind me,
Framed by the live-oaks gnarled and mossy round me.
Upon it Santa Cruz's shadowy summits,
Islanded by the mists as by the waves;
Another world's they seem, miraged a moment,
Another world's—and vanished as I gaze.

The sunlight casting mile-long purple shadows,
That drench the chaparral with cooling gloom.
The shimmery peaks pine-edged against the brightness,
The canyoncitos for the eagle's eyrie.
Down, down, far down, the wet-lipped waters calling,
Giving a voice to rugged solitudes,
To granite cliffs as moveless as dead ages
And mighty with repressed omnipotence.

Omnipotence? Ah yes, for every shoulder
Of the high range holds off the infinite,
The blue-pressed infinite in which are hidden
Star-weight and moon-weight and God-weight together.
The precipices shudder with such steepness
As strikes the heart beholding deathly still.
Within their dark crevasses creeps the eternal
And chaos yet exerts its primal will.