Where once the Wisdom-City’s temples rose
Within her “Gates of Gold,” our latter day
This noble pleasure ground but loves, and knows,
Nor guesses where the fanes of Tlamco lay;
Yet who shall say what spell that vanished race
Bequeathed forever to this mystic place?
For through this realm enchanted, wanderers stroll—
Or from the Seven Seas, or dwellers near—
And cares forget, while from each weary soul
Life’s heavy burden slips—till peace reigns here
Where blue sky arches over flower and palm,
And west winds whispering, breathe a healing balm.
Here creep the old and sad, so long denied
The welcoming smile these sunny spaces hold;
Fond lovers weave their golden dreams beside
Gay, laughing children counting poppy gold;
To all the Park brings rest, and sweet relief
From work or pain, or haunting wraiths of grief.
—Ella M. Sexton.