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 [HE 1 [BRARY 
 
 [HE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CAL IFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 California Idylh 
 
 and 
 
 Other Poems 
 
 B Y 
 
 ELLA MAY SEXTON 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 Stories of California, Mission Poems 
 and What the Children Say. 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 1920
 
 CALIFORNIA AT CHRISTMAS 
 
 " December" calls the Year but rose and 
 
 bee 
 
 And meadow-lark with trills of sweetest 
 tune 
 
 Say " No, 'tis June!" 
 
 Stern black and white the calendar's decree, 
 Yet we who read, bewildered, turn to see 
 Wide intervales of tender green, and thrill 
 To fire of southern sun caressing still 
 
 December's noon. 
 
 What dawns late-flushed with mingled gold 
 
 and rose, 
 That slowly brighten, till each perfect day 
 
 Smiles hours away 
 Under a cloudless turquoise sky! Then 
 
 shows 
 
 The pearly bubble of the moon, that grows 
 To luminous whiteness as the low sun 
 
 wanes ; 
 While, as the planets burn, December 
 
 feigns 
 June's mellow ray. 
 
 Unchanged the spires of cypress, and the 
 sweep 
 
 Of crowding hosts of gum-trees up the hill, 
 Where summer still 
 
 With gold of vagrant poppies flecks the 
 steep ; 
 
 Yet winter violets bloom with fragrance 
 deep. 
 
 Perplexed, entranced, we are but sure this 
 seems 
 
 The "Land of afternoon" and lotus- 
 dreams 
 Our senses thrilU 
 
 {*)* n AI <r* <
 
 WITH CHRISTMAS VIOLETS TO HER 
 
 From sunny gardens where no blight 
 Of winter mars their perfect bloom, 
 These purple violets waft delight 
 Of sweet perfume. 
 
 Across wide, desolate wastes of snow, 
 With breath of summer swiftly fare, 
 
 Where stern December skies brood low 
 On gardens bare. 
 
 Tell her of sapphire sky and sea, 
 Of warm, entrancing sunshine here, 
 
 Of green fields fair as Arcady, 
 Where larks sing clear. 
 
 Yet, Sweet, 'twere Arcady, though snows 
 Lay deep along each frosty way, 
 
 If but your cheek could lean its rose 
 To mine today!
 
 A CHRISTMAS CONTRAST EAST AND WEST 
 
 Bells of Christmas, a carillon sending 
 Of silver chimes through the sunny day, 
 
 Cloudless azure of June sky bending 
 Over the sapphire bay 
 
 Bitter the Christmas there, and snowing, 
 
 Keen the rough winds blowing! 
 
 Sunshine flooding the purple distance 
 Of farther mountain, and hillsides near ; 
 
 Violets breathing with sweet insistence, 
 "Winter is banished here!" 
 
 Frozen and bleak the garden-spaces 
 
 Lift their desolate faces. 
 
 Larks in our grassy meadows trilling, 
 Love and hope in their raptures told ; 
 
 Clusters of lavish poppies spilling 
 Bright, brimming cups of gold 
 
 Silent the woodlands gray, where only 
 
 Bare -fields shiver, lonely. 
 
 Lightly fall in our golden weather 
 Strokes of time for the flying hours ; 
 
 Fair Earth smiles with the Year, together 
 Marking our paths with flowers 
 
 Long the winter's reign, and weary, 
 
 Cold December dreary!
 
 WILD COLUMBINES 
 
 Gay, elfin dancers poised for flight 
 
 Where woodland shadows shimmer, 
 Or fluttering up yon windy height 
 
 Your scarlet kirtles glimmer 
 In rout fantastic, led, perchance, 
 
 By Pan, with airy fluting; 
 Fauns, too, with shy, elusive glance 
 
 Your straggling ranks saluting. 
 
 A host of sprites in forest-green 
 With wandering winds coquetting, 
 
 While golden-tasseled bonnets lean 
 Tip-tilted by their fretting. 
 
 Each merry nod, and beckoning fling 
 
 The wild bees answer, knowing 
 
 Your horns of honey freely swing, 
 Nor wait reluctant going. 
 
 For you the children, columbine, 
 
 Reach eager hands with laughter, 
 Your slender sprays, close-clasped, to pine 
 
 In drooping beauty after; 
 But all ungathered, smiling near, 
 
 Or from the hillside calling, 
 Your countless sisters bend, to hear 
 
 The children's footsteps falling. 
 
 Of all the laughing flowers, that hold 
 
 Spring's carnival, a-Maying, 
 You elves in harlequin red and gold 
 
 Are gayest, farthest straying; 
 To redwoods, fields or storm-scarred verge 
 
 Of mountain cliffs you're faring, 
 And, wind-blown, toss near ocean's surge 
 
 Your scarlet trumpets flaring.
 
 "WHAT DREAMS MAY COME" 
 
 Haunting me ever, there comes and goes 
 A line from an old song's tender close, 
 Its burden the sweetest the saddest, too, 
 For the altered lives it has echoed 
 
 through 
 "Love, had you loved me;" the words are 
 
 few 
 But through them an infinite passion flows. 
 
 "Love, had you loved me;" perhaps the 
 
 key 
 
 To many a grief this thought may be; 
 To a sorrow that stirs at the magic strain 
 And steps from its prison, barred in vain, 
 To crush with the old, relentless pain 
 The heart that has guarded it faithfully. 
 
 Ah, fondest and truest, whose brown eyes 
 
 shine 
 
 With the tenderest lovelight, I am thine 
 Forever, thou heart of my heart and yet 
 The breath of an April violet 
 Wakens a longing, a deep regret 
 For eyes as blue, that were never mine ! 
 
 "Love, had you loved me," what life would 
 
 be 
 
 Attuned to that passionate melody! 
 Sad hearts unblest, that must still repine 
 For the draught untasted of Love's rich 
 
 wine, 
 
 Bitter the memories that haunt this line 
 Of "Love, had you loved me," so mourn 
 fully.
 
 To A DECEMBER VIOLET 
 
 Dear violet, a passing guest 
 
 With Lenten gown of purple dressed 
 
 In colder clime, 
 
 Sweet saint, uplifting tender eyes 
 To April's pale and changing skies 
 
 As brief your prime ! 
 
 But constant to our sunshine, here 
 We find you, love you through the year, 
 
 As friend, nay, more ; 
 Fast drive the wind-swept rains, and, too, 
 The frost smites frailer bloom, while you 
 
 Smile as before. 
 
 No passionate rose are you, sweetheart, 
 With red lips curved to all, apart 
 
 In shyest grace 
 
 You nestle yet the garden's pride 
 Of bloom and beauty wanes beside 
 
 Your dainty face. 
 
 In sheltering leaves you hide, demure, 
 From careless glance or touch secure, 
 
 But lovers true 
 
 Led by your perfume faintly sweet 
 A breath of heaven, perchance we greet 
 
 Your heavenly blue. 
 
 Ah, little love, your calm content 
 Shames restless souls with striving spent. 
 
 Would we might find 
 Nepenthe in the sunshine ; cease 
 To war with Fate, and smile in peace, 
 
 To life resigned!
 
 A CITY OUTLOOK 
 
 From eyrie lifted high o'er clamorous 
 
 ways 
 
 And so remote the hurrying throng below, 
 Mere puppets in some strange, fantastic 
 
 show, 
 Play on their silent parts the far, clear 
 
 gaze, 
 Caught here by spires that pierce a crowded 
 
 maze 
 Of roofs and lofty towers, seeks there the 
 
 glow 
 Of gilded domes through veiling vapors 
 
 low. 
 
 Flung on the west winds, stream along the 
 
 haze 
 Long wavering plumes, snow white, or 
 
 dusky gray, 
 
 Or dark as night; each smoky pennant flies 
 And marks where, close imprisoned, breaths 
 
 and sighs 
 
 The giant Toil, still urging, day by day, 
 Unwilling slaves. Beyond, brown hills 
 
 arise 
 To meet the bending arch of deep blue 
 
 skies. 
 
 TO-DAY 
 
 To-day is ours, this moment all we know, 
 So quaff its cup of joy, kind fates bestow; 
 "To all we love," the toast, and vow with me 
 No draught more precious flows in Arcady !
 
 A MISSION LEGEND 
 
 Long ago, when the good Franciscans 
 
 Founded the Missions quaint, 
 Named in liquid and sweet Castilian, 
 
 Each honored a patron saint. 
 There were Carlos and San Fernando, 
 
 Fair Barbara, San Jose, 
 Miguel and most-loved Carmelo, 
 
 Juan and San Luis-Rey. 
 
 Adobes, white walled, set in billows 
 
 Of emerald vines and wheat, 
 Nearly a score of these Missions o'er 
 
 Long coast leagues rose complete. 
 Still Father Serra murmured, 
 
 For to Francis (name revered 
 By these brethren gray) had never a 
 Church 
 
 In this new world yet been reared. 
 
 "But," spake one, "if our San Francisco 
 
 To some goodly port will guide, 
 We will rear a stately Mission there 
 
 For that sainted founder's pride." 
 Long they searched, till this splendid 
 harbor 
 
 Before their vision lay; 
 "We were led by the Saint!" they shouted 
 then, 
 
 'Tis San Francisco's bay!" 
 
 There sparkled the quiet waters, 
 
 Unruffled by keel or prow, 
 Never a sail on the shining blue 
 
 Where flutter the world's flags now.
 
 A Mission Legend 
 
 Here a Mission new they blessed, 
 Nor dreamed that a slumbering city lay 
 On the sand dunes' shifting crest. 
 
 And the Church of Francis flourished. 
 
 The Indian converts though 
 When the mellow Angelus bells rang clear 
 
 Their Aves whispered low, 
 To the tender Mother of Sorrows 
 
 Dolores, finding there 
 At the Lady's shrine a blessed peace 
 
 For those who burdens bear. 
 
 And pointing high on the hillsides 
 
 (That round the Mission walled) 
 A mighty figure couching there 
 
 The Sleeping Lady called ; 
 Broidered with golden poppies 
 
 Her mantle's brown folds flow 
 From the Twin Peaks of her bosom bare 
 
 To the church at her feet below. 
 
 In her ears the ocean thundered 
 
 Nor broke the magic spell; 
 " Dolores," whispered the Indians, 
 
 "Our Lady sleeps and well." 
 But at night she steps from her drapery 
 
 Of fleecy fog (they told) 
 To watch o'er the slumbering Mission 
 
 Till the roses of dawn unfold. 
 
 So ever to Madre Dolores 
 
 The trusting peons prayed; 
 Francis the Good for daylight, 
 
 But at night and unafraid, 
 Were her sleeping suppliants sheltered 
 
 By the tender Mother of Pain.
 
 OUR CHRISTMAS BERRIES 
 
 High on the leaning hillsides climbing 
 
 Yon purple wall of the mountain-flanks, 
 Out of the chaparral's thickest tangle 
 
 That rims the rushing torrent's banks, 
 With a brilliant glimmer of vivid scarlet 
 
 Our Christmas berries smile, and shine 
 From a maze of oak and glossy laurel, 
 
 Manzanita and wind-swept pine. 
 
 Up the wild, rough trails in the canyons, 
 
 Crushing the ferns, and wet, sweet bay, 
 While the pungent odor of yerba-buena 
 
 Follows our breathless, headlong way; 
 Clambering high for more perfect clusters, 
 
 Set red-ripe in their golden-green 
 O, the joy of it, and far gazing 
 
 From heights won bravely, the seaward 
 scene ! 
 
 Perchance for robin as red, and blue- jay, 
 
 This feast of Nature 's is spread alone, 
 But lavish, as all this fair land's treasures, 
 
 Free as the sunshine the poorest own, 
 So to the dwellers where, thronging closely, 
 
 Glimpses of woodland beauty are rare, 
 Joy and color these Christmas berries 
 
 Bring to the dullness of ceaseless care. 
 
 What care we for the alien holly, 
 Stiff and stately with ancient pride 
 
 Of Merrie England ? We crown our revels 
 With sun-kissed garlands, and wreath 
 beside 
 
 Branches of redwood with fragrance sylvan, 
 Grandest of mansions, or cot within ; 
 
 Lending the smile of Mother Nature
 
 RONDEAU 
 
 Those other days! Where is the heart 
 Keeps not some jewels, shrined apart, 
 Of precious intervals that linger 
 Untouched by Time's relentless finger? 
 Pair days when Love had fullest part 
 Enchanting earth with magic art; 
 Hope's rainbows, too, their charms impart 
 
 Those other days. 
 
 Days memory guards with jealous art 
 Lest each remembrance sweet depart, 
 And bids their rosy glamour linger 
 Untouched by Time's relentless finger, 
 Dear other days! 
 
 II 
 
 RONDEAU 
 
 Again the spring! Strange miracle and 
 
 sweet, 
 Renewed each slow-paced year as April's 
 
 feet 
 We follow while she beckons, luring, 
 
 wiling 
 To grassy fields where nod gay poppies, 
 
 smiling 
 
 Yet though the sun's caresses warm entreat, 
 With deep and subtle sadness, too, replete 
 Our hearts, and wistfully each year we greet 
 Fair earth to sea and shore and hill 
 beguiling 
 
 Again the Spring. 
 
 For far Life's goal; the spring's fond hopes 
 
 with fleet 
 
 Elusive step and mocking laugh retreat. 
 So long the way, so weary we of smiling, 
 And empty hearts with empty words 
 
 beguiling ; 
 Lashed on bv Fate. desDairins". we rer>eat.
 
 DUSK AT POINT BONITA 
 
 Around Bonita's cliffs the wild Pacific 
 Erets like a fettered giant at his chain; 
 
 In helpless fury roar the baffled surges 
 Beating against the cruel rocks in vain. 
 
 No soft, low lap of slumbrous waters 
 
 ebbing, 
 
 No sunny stretch of level beach is here; 
 The sheer crag lashed by angry spray 
 
 uprises 
 
 From eddies dark, the boom of breakers 
 near. 
 
 Afar, above the horizon's rim, there trem 
 bles 
 
 Against the tender blue one mellow star; 
 The long white films of fog are landward 
 
 drifting, 
 A vessel tossing on the heaving bar. 
 
 Lonely the light-house rears its slender 
 
 column 
 Crowned with the beacon star of vivid 
 
 flame 
 That leaped to life when, startling in the 
 
 silence 
 The sunset gun for dying daylight came. 
 
 Around Bonita's cliffs the weird dusk 
 
 deepens, 
 Like ghostly sails, the fog athwart the 
 
 sky; 
 The west wind lulled, the waves are fainter 
 
 calling, 
 The lustrous radiance of the light streams 
 
 by.
 
 Dusk at Point Bomta 
 
 Through the gray gloom white wings are 
 
 swiftly flashing, 
 As sea-gulls scream above the breakers' 
 
 moans ; 
 They seek their nests where fade into the 
 
 twilight 
 The misty outlines of the Farallones. 
 
 THE WILLOW TREE 
 
 Forever at my casement's square 
 A drooping willow sways and moans, 
 The faintest breath of wandering wind 
 That scarcely stirs the slumbering air, 
 Wakes from the willow answering tones. 
 
 All day the golden summer long 
 From its deep bower of tender green 
 My willow breathes an idyll sweet, 
 A dreamy, murmuring woodland song 
 Like dryads trill at sports unseen. 
 
 But now when from the moaning sea 
 The winds rush landward and the rain 
 Driven by the fierce gale, wildly beats, 
 Lashed by the storm the groaning tree 
 Writhes like a giant racked with pain. 
 
 A secret that I had not guessed 
 
 So closely folded was it kept, 
 
 The willow guards no more. Poor birds, 
 
 The leaves that hid thy sheltered nest 
 
 December's hand has widely swept. 
 
 Still sobs the wind and drips away 
 The weary rain. I dimly see 
 The tossing willow, and its boughs 
 Through deepening gloom of waning day 
 Like ghostly fingers beckon me.
 
 A CHKISTMAS ROSE AT MONTEREY 
 
 Rose, at the Monterey Mission unfolding, 
 Rose the good Padres once cherishing, 
 
 trained 
 On these adobe walls gnarled stems 
 
 upholding 
 Chalices perfumed, and sunset-pink 
 
 stained, 
 
 Rosa Castilian, sweet rose of the Mission, 
 Secrets, ah, surely, your gold hearts 
 
 retained 
 As the long century drowsily waned. 
 
 Rose, did they whisper those old days, but 
 
 aves, 
 
 While gay boleros soft tinkled without 
 Corridors white in the moonlight, and path 
 ways 
 Darkened where twin shadows flitted 
 
 about? 
 
 Rosa Castilian, sweet rose of the Mission, 
 Never a kiss set your pink lips to pout, 
 Never a languorous lover to flout? 
 
 Rose, in some odorous twilight fast-flying, 
 
 (Waiting the Angelus prayer to repeat) 
 Stooped not a fond cavalier, softly sighing 
 
 Into your warm ear a confidence sweet ? 
 Rosa Castilian, sweet rose of the Mission, 
 
 Once you leaned, surely, some ardent 
 heart's beat 
 
 Quickened by ancient romances, to greet ?
 
 A Christmas Rose at Monterey 
 
 Rose on these crumbling walls tenderly 
 
 cherished 
 Years to you naught but the sunshine and 
 
 rain, 
 Dust are the Padres, their sepulchres 
 
 perished ; 
 
 Moldering missal and vestments remain, 
 Rosa Castilian, sweet rose of the Mission, 
 Long-vanished glories their voiceless 
 
 refrain, 
 Passing of power Franciscan, of Spain. 
 
 Rose with this austral sun's golden wine 
 
 filling 
 Lavish cups, brimming and perfumed 
 
 to-day, 
 No breath of winter, nor icy blast chilling 
 
 Bloom of December as constant as May, 
 Rosa Castilian, sweet rose of the Mission, 
 Ah, but the magical tales you might say, 
 Pink lips from golden hearts curving 
 away! 
 
 IT WAS BOHEMIA! 
 
 Gray August days, when ceaselessly 
 
 Strong tradewinds scourge the moaning sea 
 And sullen shore. Far inland drift 
 White wraiths of fog that shadowy, swift, 
 
 Athwart blurred hills and sand-dunes flee 
 
 Or, clinging, veil each dripping tree. 
 
 The sunless sky broods silently; 
 Of golden light no gleam, no rift 
 
 Gray August days. 
 
 Sad sea-girt coast, how wistfully 
 
 The sapphire skies of Arcady 
 
 Where redwoods stately columns lift, 
 And radiant floods of sunshine sift, 
 
 Recur in vivid life to me 
 
 Gray August days!
 
 LAVENDEK, SWEET 
 
 At a crowded corner the " lavender-man" 
 
 To passers-by unheeding 
 Offers the sweet, old-fashioned herb 
 
 With patient, silent pleading. 
 The gay crowd surges on and on 
 
 (A pageant ever shifting) 
 But vaguely noting, on Self intent, 
 
 This pungent fragrance drifting. 
 
 For me a grief and a memory dear 
 
 This perfume wakens, bringing 
 Back from the past a garden quaint 
 
 With the purple spikes up-springing 
 Of lavender sweet in the August days, 
 
 And two who loitered idly 
 Nor dreamed that a mocking Fate had set 
 
 Their paths diverging widely. 
 
 Two who lingered to pluck the stalks 
 
 Of lavender sweet, unguessing 
 The charm of that golden summer day 
 
 Was one of Love's possessing; 
 That their blossoming time of youth and 
 life 
 
 Was at Love's touch unfolding 
 Till only two, and the lavender flowers 
 
 The happy world seemed holding. 
 
 Two and a cloud then an angry word 
 
 A rift that widened slowly 
 As the lavender, gray and faded, died 
 
 Two parted, sundered wholly ; 
 Yet still as the lavender's fragrance drifts 
 
 That crowded corner nearing, 
 Half-sweet, half-bitter the old grief wakes 
 
 That " might have been" endearing.
 
 AN ODE TO THE WEST WIND 
 
 (And Owed a Long Time) 
 
 Thou glorious western breeze ! 
 (But wait, until I turn my back to get 
 
 One breath, at least, with ease.) 
 Here, from far leagues of heaving blue, and 
 
 wet 
 
 With salt spume of the sea, 
 (Uncurled my bangs must be ! 
 A perfect fright I look,) by Aeolus sped 
 From his vast Cave of Winds (each hairpin 
 
 fled). 
 
 Thy sigh with ozone fraught 
 (Likewise with sand) new life and fresh 
 
 hast brought 
 
 To toilers in this city maelstrom foul, 
 (A sigh ! Methinks a raging, roaring howl !) 
 And careworn eyes uplift 
 As low thy pinions drift 
 With gray fog streaming from those mighty 
 
 wings. 
 
 (And signs and cobblestones and hats 
 and things.) 
 
 Strong wind, untrammeled, free, 
 (Though not of dust both weeping eyes 
 
 agree.) 
 From warm seas of the Orient swiftly flown 
 
 (Chilled to the bone, 
 I doubt that legend) . Dost thou, trade wind, 
 
 bear 
 
 What messages, what stores 
 From rich and sunkissed shores 
 In white flotillas proudly homeward (there, 
 My hat's a wreck!) Gay zephyr unconfmed, 
 (Though would you were !) in sportive mood 
 
 inclined 
 
 (Worlds for a sheltered nook, there to re 
 treat 
 
 And praise some more this gale, my ode 
 complete!)
 
 Two PICTURES 
 
 THERE 
 
 Bitter the keen winds blowing under sullen 
 
 skies and low, 
 Where the dying sun, his brief task done, 
 
 sinks blood-red over the snow, 
 Snow with its merciless beauty, snow with 
 
 its deadly hold 
 On the pulses warm of each shuddering form 
 
 that dares the cruel cold. 
 
 God pity the shelterless vagrant, whose wan 
 dering steps and slow 
 Falter and fail in the icy gale, while darkens 
 
 the waste below 
 O, the scourging lash of the blizzard, the 
 
 blinding, stinging sleet, 
 The gaunt white wolves of Hunger and Cold 
 that follow grim and fleet! 
 
 HERE; 
 New grass in all the sunny spaces; 
 
 New robes for earth's brown breast 
 The rains weave fast, in vacant places 
 By southern sun caressed. 
 
 New hopes through hearts despairing, 
 thrilling, 
 
 New life a glad world knows, 
 With larks in greenest meadows trilling 
 
 Where gold of poppies glows. 
 
 /".'" */ 
 
 Red are the garden-roses budding; 
 
 Through casements wide, the room 
 Warm winds with violet odors flooding, 
 
 Knows Spring's dear, faint perfume.
 
 CHRISTMAS SONG FOR CALIFORNIA 
 
 No winter's blight our Christinas knows, 
 No bitter blasts, nor sparkling snows, 
 The old year wanes, the old year goes 
 
 While halcyon hours 
 Drift on enchanted pinions fleet 
 In sunny gardens, where with sweet 
 And haunting perfume violets greet 
 
 Late summer's flowers. 
 
 Scarce dream we Christmas almost near 
 
 So blue December skies appear, 
 
 So green the beckoning fields, so clear 
 
 Rise hills remote. 
 
 The golden present thralls, no past 
 Nor morrow's cares dark shadows cast, 
 Just on Time's dial, flying fast, 
 
 Bright hours we note. 
 
 Ring out, glad Christmas bells, nor cease 
 Prom snows to palms by tropic seas, 
 Your tidings of good-will and peace 
 
 Exultant sound; 
 
 Ring out, blest tale of Love Divine, 
 Where Christmas wreaths of northern pine, 
 Our berries red, or holly twine 
 
 The world around.
 
 A CALIFORNIA THANKSGIVING 
 
 Is this Thanksgiving? November, 
 
 With the tender green of the hills 
 Splashed with deep gold of poppies 
 
 While sweet the meadow-lark trills? 
 Thanksgiving and violets blooming ? 
 
 O, by some wizard's device 
 The year has skipped those pages 
 
 Of the almanac's "snow and ice"! 
 
 November? And sunshine pouring 
 
 From a cloudless turquoise sky 
 While steeped in a trance of languor 
 
 Warm, golden hours drift by? 
 Gardens ablaze with color, 
 
 And fragrant as vanished June 
 Masking in robes of summer ; 
 
 Can winter come and soon? 
 
 Where are those dark, cold mornings 
 
 With rime of hoar-frost white, 
 The bare and leafless branches 
 
 That moaned in the gales of night? 
 Those gray days slowly dying 
 
 In an angry flame of red, 
 While keen the flash of starlight 
 
 In the steely blue o 'erhead ? 
 
 That is November ! Thanksgiving 
 
 Brings snow to drift and hide 
 Brown hills, while merry sleigh-bells 
 
 Bring rovers home to bide. 
 This in the land of sunshine 
 
 Seems Indian summer's prime, 
 With the frost's destroying fingers 
 
 Stayed by a smiling Time.
 
 A PLIGHT WITH PUCK 
 
 "I'll put a girdle round about the earth in 
 forty minutes." 
 
 Midsummer Night 's Dream. 
 
 When half this happy world in Sleep's 
 
 embrace 
 
 Close-folded lies, and I, denied, without 
 That blissful pale, cast restless arms 
 
 about, 
 One boon remains, though Sleep avert her 
 
 face, 
 For tricksy Puck I call from realms of 
 
 space ; 
 My spirit, and that wanderer gay, seek 
 
 out 
 
 Far countries by his swift, unerring 
 route, 
 
 And lingering, flying, claim each longed-for 
 place. 
 
 Venice is mine, the Bridge of Sighs 
 
 restrains 
 Our steps as sunset fades; proud Rome 
 
 unveils 
 
 Her treasures, or we float adown the Nile, 
 And of a dearer journey dream the while, 
 Where sang the Master and the nightin 
 gales 
 Sing yet his threnody in English lanes!
 
 IN THE FOOTHILLS 
 
 Oh, the joy, the deep delight of living 
 Through strong pulses throbbing, Nature 
 
 giving 
 Floods of sunshine, golden 
 
 Wine of life; 
 
 Bends the sky, a hollow turquoise, over 
 Red-brown hills that beckon me, a rover, 
 On to breathe mid-summer's 
 
 Fragrance rife. 
 
 On through tangled depths of chaparral 
 
 breasting 
 Up steep sunburnt slopes, rough boulders 
 
 cresting, 
 Purple heights unconquered 
 
 Fairer rise; 
 
 Sweet the hard-won rest, the new endeavor 
 Raptured senses thrilling, luring ever 
 On, till dark each shadowy 
 
 Canyon lies. 
 
 Oh, to hold Time fast, and bid him measure 
 Life to just this harmony of pleasure, 
 Bidding Summer linger 
 
 In the land; 
 
 Let the world, yon high horizon barring, 
 Fret and strive, unheeded here its warring, 
 For these silent summits 
 
 Peace command.
 
 In clamorous waves the city's roar 
 Beats on and on through stifling airs, 
 
 With deafening din re-echoing o'er 
 Her stony, clattering thoroughfares; 
 
 Yet, inner silence broods with me 
 The charmed trance of Arcady. 
 
 Shut in by towering walls, the sky 
 A pallid glimpse, God's sunlight dear 
 
 Past dusty casements flickering by, 
 
 With Toil and Gain for warders, here 
 
 A yearning prisoner held, for me 
 Still smile the fields of Arcady. 
 
 Dull, dull and cold each printed page, 
 Long-columned figures sway and reel, 
 
 While round me fellow-toilers wage 
 Life's struggle, chained to Fortune's 
 wheel ; 
 
 From duty's lash a truant, free 
 I roam with fauns in Arcady. 
 
 Ah, Heart of Mine, await me there, 
 While snows of orange-blossoms fall, 
 
 Till at your lead our footsteps fare 
 And follow changeless Summer's call. 
 
 Fulfilled our every dream shall be 
 In yonder longed-for Arcady !
 
 SISTER DOLORES 
 
 Pure, placid face with linen aureole bound 
 
 In saintly guise, 
 
 Still on your rosary bent in thought pro 
 found, 
 
 Those prayerful eyes. 
 Dolores, tell me are your cloistered walls 
 
 From sin secure? 
 
 Where neither storm nor stress nor sorrow 
 faUs 
 
 Does peace endure? 
 
 Pale lily, nurtured in dim convent close 
 
 (Love's sun denied 
 Whose ardent kisses woo the blushing rose 
 
 To crimson pride.) 
 What dower of sweetness all ungathered fills 
 
 That untouched heart? 
 What inner song of calm delight so thrills 
 
 Your life apart? 
 
 In constant prayer, in faithful toiling spent, 
 
 Your days serene; 
 Reproved, we idlers watch such calm content 
 
 With reverent mien. 
 Unmarred by lines of vain desire, of care, 
 
 Your rose-leaf cheek, 
 An aura sweet of blessed goodness there, 
 
 Devoutly meek. 
 
 And stirs no grief, no fair remembrance calls 
 
 Prom yesterdays 
 When on your crucifix the moonlight falls ; 
 
 Or garden ways 
 Are blue with violets in the wistful spring, 
 
 Wakes no regret 
 For vanished face, for raptures lost, to bring 
 
 Tears bitter yet?
 
 Sister Dolores 
 
 Love's anguished night, Love's golden days 
 unguessed, 
 
 Hope's restless tides 
 And ebb of fear knows not your gentle breast 
 
 Where heaven abides; 
 That bitter-sweet, to me Life's all, Life's 
 best, 
 
 Nor for release 
 From blissful pain, Dolores, could I rest 
 
 In cloistered peace. 
 
 LAKE TAHOE 
 
 Gem of the high Sierra, lucent, clear, 
 Your emerald shallows mirror emerald 
 
 shore 
 And each long ripple paints that vergo 
 
 once more, 
 
 Till trembling, shifting, these illusions near 
 
 Fairer than crags and pines remote appear. 
 
 What mysteries strange your depths of 
 
 sapphire store, 
 What whispered legends, myths of Indian 
 
 lore, 
 
 Told on enchanted waters drifting here 
 To watch the opaline fires of sunset pale. 
 Where snow-flecked Tallac towers, the 
 
 far peaks glow 
 With misty radiance lingering, fading 
 
 slow. 
 Too soon dim dusk and darkening sky 
 
 prevail, 
 
 On Tahoe 's quiet breast the last gleams fail, 
 And mellow Hesper in the west burns low.
 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE IN THE PHILIPPINES 
 
 On the firing line in Luzon when the sickly 
 
 moon hung low 
 In a lurid haze of copper, and the flooded 
 
 rice-fields show 
 Glitter near of drowning moonbeams, glitter 
 
 far where rifles peep 
 It was Scott, clean dazed with fever, fell to 
 
 crooning (half asleep) : 
 "O, the Kansas prairies stretching, white 
 
 with moonlight on the snow, 
 O, the Kansas farmhouse windows flaring 
 
 out their rosy glow 
 From the fire-place where they gather, 
 
 neighbors from the farms about, 
 For it's New Year's Eve in Kansas, and 
 
 they watch the Old Year out." 
 
 On the firing line in Luzon many a homesick 
 
 heart beat fast 
 With a bitter, hopeless longing as that 
 
 hoarse voice sobbed at last; 
 (Like a hailstorm fell the bullets; never 
 
 cared he how they sped) 
 Babbling louder, "Boys, it's 'watch night,' 
 
 don't you see the tables spread? 
 'Watch night' back in Kansas feasting, 
 
 plenty God! we're starving here! 
 'Watch night' and beside you some one, 
 
 blushing as you whisper, 'Dear, 
 You're the last I'll see this Old Year, so my 
 
 New Year's bride you'll be,' 
 And her kiss while twelve was striking 
 
 brought a glad New Year to me."
 
 New Year's Eve in the Philippines 
 
 On the firing line in Luzon, "Down!" they 
 shouted; "Hold him, men!" 
 
 But he staggered upward, forward, with 
 that choking voice again 
 
 Sobbing, calling, "Mother, Molly, don't you 
 know me, wife f It 's Will ! ' ' 
 
 In that deadly rain of bullets falling head 
 long, whispering still, 
 
 "Dear, it's 'watch night,' and together we 
 will watch the Old Year go; 
 
 Kiss once more as twelve rings gladly in the 
 New Year from the snow; 
 
 Bitter cold these Kansas prairies; hold me 
 closer, Molly dear" 
 
 Scott of Kansas, dead in Luzon, smiling, 
 welcomed in the year. 
 
 MERE ATOMS, LORD ! 
 
 "Worlds for another day!" the felon cried, 
 And heard swift hammers on his scaffold 
 
 ring. 
 "The dawn again!" a girl despairing 
 
 sighed ; 
 "Dear God, I prayed that kindly Death 
 
 might bring 
 His Lethean draught." Of both unheeding, 
 
 soared 
 The splendid sun, by millions blest, adored.
 
 MOTORING IN GOLDEN GATE PARK 
 
 *Won from the shifting sand-dunes 
 
 That trade-winds whirl and heap 
 While the restless ocean-surges 
 
 Forever landward sweep, 
 There stretches a noble pleasaunce 
 
 The people's fair estate 
 In the city of Saint Francis 
 
 That guards the Golden Gate. 
 
 Here are hill and vale and woodland 
 
 With dear delights at call, 
 And the glitter and liquid plashing 
 
 Of lake and waterfall ; 
 Trees and flowers of the rarest 
 
 But the level roads that roll 
 Like a ribbon bright unfolding 
 
 Bring joy to the motor-soul! 
 
 For, ah, the bliss of speeding 
 
 With one the dearest and best 
 Into the heart of the sunset 
 
 And the amber glow of the west; 
 Of the musical, rhythmical humming 
 
 Of perfect gear and gait 
 As the reeling miles go flying 
 
 In this Park of the Golden Gate! 
 
 We have distanced every trouble, 
 
 Old Care forsakes the race ; 
 In this mad, sweet, onward rushing 
 
 But Life and Love keep pace. 
 Till the sun in the broad Pacific 
 
 Dips low his shield of gold, 
 And a myriad blossoms of starlight 
 
 On our homeward way unfold. 
 
 * Golden Gate Park of a thousand acres was re 
 claimed from a waste of sand-dunes.
 
 A BALLAD OF THE Kiss 
 
 That danger may lurk in a kiss 
 
 Scientific professors are holding; 
 They seek to deprive us of this 
 
 Consolation by grimly unfolding 
 Tales of possible microbes in wait, 
 
 Of bacilli deadly ensnaring 
 Each innocent pair soon or late 
 
 While kisses they fondly are sharing. 
 
 That danger may lurk in a kiss 
 
 No one will deny it completely 
 Who has yielded to fetters that this 
 
 Soft touch of red lips rivets neatly. 
 There is fear, too, of losing the next; 
 
 For who does not ponder with sorrow 
 On the kiss indecision, perplexed, 
 
 Put off for a ne'er-arrived morrow. 
 
 And danger may lurk in the kiss 
 
 A stranger inflicts on the baby 
 An elderly relative's! This 
 
 Choice salute has some terrors, it maybe ; 
 But given two souls held as one 
 
 By love's immemorial passion, 
 And there's naught half so sweet 'neath the 
 sun 
 
 As a kiss in the time-honored fashion. 
 
 Yes ; danger may lurk in a kiss ; 
 
 But who would not risk it, declaring 
 That exquisite moment of bliss 
 
 Worth microbes innumerable daring? 
 Oh! fossils antique, why dispel 
 
 With a microscope Love's dream Elysian, 
 And facts so detestable tell 
 
 Of bacteriological vision? 
 
 ENVOY 
 Prince, danger may lurk in this kiss 
 
 You are begging with words of affection ; 
 For an instant's non-sterilized bliss 
 
 Would you risk ac endemic infection?
 
 BREAD AND CHEESE AND KISSES 
 
 I've always been a rolling stone, 
 
 Nor gathered any moss, 
 A ready hand, a ready glass, 
 
 For all I came across 
 But, now, for love of you, my dear, 
 
 No longer will I roam, 
 I'll settle down, a married man, 
 
 And have a cosy home 
 
 Yes, it's home, my honey, 
 With a pocket full of money, 
 Home and wife, my honey, 
 When my ship comes in ! 
 
 Somewhere upon Life's ocean wide, 
 
 Sjhe's on her homeward run, 
 That gallant ship with shining sails. 
 
 She's lettered just A-l; 
 Her cargo all of dollars bright, 
 
 The steersman, Hope, will bring 
 Safe into harbor soon, my dear 
 
 And then we'll buy the ring; 
 
 For it's home, my honey, 
 With a pocket full of money, 
 Home and wife, my honey, 
 When that ship comes in I
 
 Bread and Cheese and Kisses 
 
 I wouldn't ask the girl I love 
 
 To share but bread and cheese, 
 A crust and work for me, my dear, 
 
 For you a life of ease ; 
 And the wolf that waits without the door 
 
 Drives Love in fear away 
 So plight your faith to me, my dear 
 
 And wait a happier day 
 
 When it's home, my honey, 
 And a pocket full of money 
 Home and wife, my honey, 
 When that ship comes in ! 
 
 What ? You say that ship is but a dream, 
 
 And old and gray we 'd be, 
 While bread and cheese and kisses, too, 
 
 Is feast enough ? Why, see, 
 If that's your will, my bonny lass, 
 
 Then hand in hand we'll fare 
 Though light our purse, our lighter hearts 
 
 Shall sweet and bitter share ; 
 
 So it's home, my honey, 
 And never mind the money ; 
 Home and wife, my honey, 
 Ere that ship comes in!
 
 FIVE O'CLOCK TEA 
 (From Joe's Point of View) 
 
 A pink and white pastel 
 In her picturesque, fluffy frock, 
 My lady serves us Russian tea 
 In marvelous Worcester cups, while we 
 Her guests, admiring, smile and pass 
 The nothings that serve for wit alas 
 At five o'clock. 
 
 The cold dusk deepens without, 
 
 But here is the very heart 
 
 Of June in this perfumed and rose-red 
 
 glow, 
 And the warmth of her slow sweet smile, 
 
 and though 
 I have but a glance, as the gay throng 
 
 sways, 
 
 I count this one of Life's perfect days 
 Thus set apart. 
 
 Half the men of our set 
 Rave of her beauty and grace; 
 I'm but her humblest slave, I know, 
 Yet even a queen may stoop and so 
 In the wildest, maddest of dreams divine 
 I dare to picture as some day mine, 
 Her proud, proud face. 
 
 She and I then, alone 
 What rapturous bliss were it true ! 
 The world shut out as the daylight dies 
 While tender the look in her dreamy eyes, 
 With white hands hovering deftly o'er 
 A tete-a-tete service, she smiles to pour 
 Tea just for two!
 
 A MAY CAROL 
 
 Such a gay world is the May world 
 
 In this perfect sunny weather! 
 There are snowy daisies smiling on the 
 
 lawn; 
 Saintly white rose nods to red rose, 
 
 Golden poppies laugh together, 
 And the meadow larks call gladly at the 
 dawn. 
 
 'Tis an old world and a cold world, 
 
 But the sun's an ardent lover, 
 And his glowing kisses thrill her bosom 
 
 fair, 
 Till the May earth is a new earth 
 
 And the grass and blossoms cover 
 All the hillsides and the gardens every 
 where. 
 
 Now the cold rains and the frost-blight 
 At the touch of spring have vanished, 
 
 And our pulses throb at kisses of the May, 
 
 So from sad hearts like the young hearts, 
 Should the clouds of grief be banished, 
 
 And a flood of joyous sunlight fill the day. 
 
 With the May days, dusty town ways 
 
 Are our restless spirits spurning, 
 For the dreamy charm of Nature longing 
 
 so; 
 For the woodpaths and the brookpaths 
 
 And the sound of waters yearning, 
 Where our Mother Earth is calling, calling 
 low.
 
 A PICTURE OF '49 
 
 When the water came up to Montgomery 
 
 street 
 
 In the days of '49'ers, 
 This canvas town was a swarming hive 
 Of the bravest and quickest men alive, 
 "Who thronged saloons and filled each 
 
 "dive" 
 With cheerful clink of "shiners." 
 
 When the water came up to Montgomery 
 
 street; 
 
 Its blue waves softly flowing 
 Where the Mills and Mutual brick walls 
 
 rest, 
 Thick chaparral crowded o'er Nob Hill's 
 
 crest, 
 
 And trade winds over the sand dunes west 
 Of Powell street were blowing. 
 
 When the water came up to Montgomery 
 
 street 
 
 Those were the days to live in! 
 When Gold was king and woman queen; 
 The pistol law or a long knife keen 
 While to chance or pleasure the hours 
 
 between 
 The dusk and dawn were given. 
 
 When the water came up to Montgomery 
 street, 
 
 And Pioneer veins throbbed madly 
 In the fierce "gold fever's" wildest spells. 
 The chimes of the Mission Dolores bells 
 Faint o'er the din of the gambling "hells" 
 
 Touched hearts that answered sadly.
 
 A Picture of '49 
 
 When the water came up to Montgomery 
 street 
 
 Oh, Argonauts, strong yet tender! 
 Free-lances of Fortune, her golden prize 
 Won by the few, from the many flies; 
 And struggling hosts perished with dying 
 eyes 
 
 Upraised to its fatal splendor. 
 
 SONG 
 Sweetheart of mine, what art of thine 
 
 Didst use to gently wind me 
 Around thy dainty finger, till 
 I'm but the creature of thy will? 
 Slave of thy ring, I wonder still 
 
 Such slender chains can bind me. 
 
 Is it thy hair, oh sweetheart fair, 
 In gold lengths softly shining ? 
 
 Or no, within those deep brown eyes 
 
 Perchance the subtle secret lies ; 
 
 One long, long look may yet surprise 
 This charm that mocks divining. 
 
 Red lips of thine, oh sweetheart mine, 
 
 The mystery might discover. 
 Entrancing curves and dimples, pray 
 Will you this cunning witch betray? 
 "No magic here," thy sweet lips say, 
 
 "I only love my lover."
 
 THE SONGS OF A PEOPLE 
 
 "Let me make the songs of a people and 
 I care not who makes the laws." 
 
 Ah, to make the songs of a people ; 
 
 Grand songs that thrilling deep 
 With a living fire of swift desire 
 
 A nation's heart-strings sweep; 
 Dear songs of home and fireside 
 
 Or battle-chants that ring 
 With the clash of steel, as foemen wheel, 
 
 And a mighty chorus sing ! 
 
 Let me make the songs of a people 
 
 Folk-songs, that echoing down 
 From sire to son long years, have won 
 
 The country's wide renown; 
 The cradle-songs of a people, 
 
 Their solemn hymns of praise 
 Those words that mould, with a subtle hold, 
 
 Men's souls for upward ways. 
 Yes, to make the songs of a people ; 
 
 The ones that mothers croon 
 To the dreaming ears of the babe, who hears 
 
 Through life that haunting tune ; 
 Sweet calls of the happy children 
 
 In rhyming melody, 
 Their fairy-plays, or the lilting lays 
 
 They carol, gay and free.
 
 The Song of a People 
 
 Let me make the songs of a people 
 
 That the hardy toilers choose, 
 Their chanty-strains, as the anchor-chains 
 
 Heave up from the harbor-ooze ; 
 The runes of the northern sailors, 
 
 Or fisher-chants that fail 
 Through the closing night, as the ghostly 
 white 
 
 Of fog dims voice and sail. 
 
 Thus to make the songs of a people, 
 What joy those strains to write! 
 
 The curb and chain of Law, in vain 
 Would shackle might and right ; 
 
 But deep in the hearts of a people 
 
 The power of Song endures; 
 No laws can teach, or as surely reach 
 
 The heights that Song secures. 
 
 UNDER THE SEARCH LIGHT 
 
 With the human tide, one drifts 
 
 Through the shadowy pathways' gloom, 
 When out of the sea of faces, lifts 
 As the splendid shaft of silver shifts, 
 One like a rose in bloom. 
 
 'Tis the tender face of my love, 
 Lost love who was never mine ; 
 
 Only her wistful look I meet 
 
 Her glance that has held me in bondage sweet 
 While the slow-paced years decline. 
 
 Only her face and it fades 
 
 As the strong white glare departs. 
 Darkness and silence blur the scene, 
 And the ocean of Life rolls on between 
 That passing touch of our hearts.
 
 THE FIEST RAIN 
 
 When, hesitant, the rain's light footfalls 
 
 greet 
 These arid hills, long waiting, brown and 
 
 bare, 
 What faintly answering fragrance fills 
 
 the air? 
 A happy sigh from prisoned wildflowers 
 
 sweet 
 Gliding like ghosts each from its deep 
 
 retreat 
 
 At near release of weary drought's 
 despair. 
 
 Swift fancy bids the long procession fare 
 
 Till hills and intervales gay ranks repeat 
 
 With gold of buttercups, blue iris, dear 
 
 And sweetest violets; here the orange flare 
 
 Of joyous poppies, lupins straggling there. 
 
 Bright perfumed cohorts, viewless yet 
 
 how clear ! 
 
 Phantoms of summer, wraiths of lost delight 
 The first rain summons into airy flight. 
 
 PANSIES 
 
 A little knot of pansies 
 Bronze and purple and gold 
 Rise and fall in a dainty nest 
 Of creamy lace on my lady's breast, 
 As we sway to the cadences soft and low 
 Of dreamy waltzes, to and fro, 
 This little knot of pansies 
 Their dewy fragrance hold.
 
 Pansies 
 
 "Ah, happy knot of pancies," 
 
 I whisper with a sigh ; 
 "Yet the tiny faces careless wear 
 Their priceless honors, nestling there 
 In the heaven of flowers, with perfume faint 
 And cool as in some garden quaint, 
 
 These happy little pansies 
 In envied sweetness lie." 
 
 "Nay, envy not my pansies" 
 
 And her voice is silver-clear 
 "Worn for an hour, they fade and die, 
 Their velvet petals withered lie 
 Crushed and broken and cast aside, 
 Vain their purple and golden pride ; 
 Poor little knot of pansies 
 They buy such honors dear." 
 
 "Yet, blest for ever these pansies 
 If they linger but an hour ; 
 Nestled in amber silk and lace, 
 Clasped by glimmer of pearls in place, 
 Sweet were death in such royal state 
 But the heaven sweet of thy bosom, Fate 
 Gives only to these pansies, 
 Unconscious, thankless flowers." 
 
 Withered to-day the pansies, 
 
 Tarnished their bronze and gold ; 
 Yet sweetest memories grace bestow, 
 With pristine beauty their pale leaves glow. 
 We smile and guard them with tender 
 
 thought 
 Of the spell their fairy faces wrought. 
 
 This little knot of pansies 
 Our joined lives precious hold.
 
 RONDEAU 
 
 Thy dearest friend I Take not the one whose 
 
 praise 
 
 And fulsome flattery regale thine ear, 
 That ready echo, sweet but insincere, 
 Voicing a bland approval of thy ways; 
 Nor him who holds a mirror that portrays 
 And nothing more thine imperfections 
 clear. 
 
 For thy soul's mate whom long years but 
 
 endear, 
 
 Whose heart to thine respondeth nor 
 betrays 
 
 (For dearest friend) 
 Choose one who, wisely kind, to heights 
 
 above 
 Mere Self, directs thy course with firm 
 
 intent, 
 Who guards thy life with tender touch 
 
 of love 
 From sin's foul blight. . . Smiling at thy 
 
 content 
 
 Sad in thy grief Then truly heaven-sent, 
 Thy dearest friend !
 
 A DBEAM OF POPPIES 
 
 Brown hills long parched, long lifting to the 
 
 blue 
 
 Of summer's brilliant sky but russet hue 
 Of sere grass shivering in the trade-wind's 
 
 sweep, 
 Soon, with light footfalls, from their 
 
 tranced sleep 
 
 The first rains bid your poppies rise anew; 
 
 And trills the larg exultant summons, too. 
 
 How swift at Fancy's beck those gay 
 
 crowds leap 
 To glowing life! The eager green leaves 
 
 creep 
 For welcome first; then hooded buds, pale 
 
 gold, 
 
 Each tender shower and sun-kiss help unfold 
 Till smiling hosts crowd all the fields, and 
 
 till 
 
 A yellow sea of poppies breasts each hill 
 And breaks in joyous floods, as children hold 
 Glad hands the lavish cups as gladly fill.
 
 MOST OF ALL 
 
 Dear to the hearts of Provence girls 
 In France, the beautiful, is this rhyme : 
 "He loves me a little not at all 
 A great deal," then "the most of all." 
 A flower charm told in midsummer time, 
 When this sunny land is fair to behold 
 With Marguerite daisies, white and gold. 
 
 This is one picture summer shows: 
 Fanchon, the flower-girl, standing where 
 The climbing roses, creamy Lamarque, 
 Brush with their petals her tresses dark, 
 Gathering the daisies, white and fair ; 
 Half in a dream, o'er her winsome face 
 Comes a sudden sweetness, a tender grace. 
 
 Over the daisies her bright face droops, 
 Softly she whispers the musical rhyme ; 
 "He loves me a little," pausing to blush, 
 "A great deal," ah, what a rosy flush ! 
 "A little, a great deal;" not this time; 
 In a silvery shower the petals fall ; 
 "A little a great deal most of all." 
 
 "Most of all," the sweet lips say, 
 Dreamy and tender grow her eyes, 
 While leaf by leaf the charm is told, 
 O'er petals of silver and hearts of gold. 
 Now on her face a shadow lies ; 
 "Not at all;" with a charming frown 
 The innocent daisies flutter down.
 
 Most of All 
 
 Again she murmurs the legend old, 
 
 Half vexed, half laughing, and wholly sweet ; 
 
 The flying petals, like rosy snow, 
 
 Drift from her fingers and falling low, 
 
 Flutter around her dainty feet. 
 
 "Most of all" is the last she tries 
 
 "Yes, most of all," a voice replies. 
 
 Over her shoulder a saucy face, 
 A daring arm round her bodice red 
 Ah, Fanchon's fortune is surely told; 
 No need of the daisies, white and gold, 
 To tell the words her lover has said, 
 Kissing her lips 'tis "under the rose" 
 He loves her the most of all, she knows.
 
 MANUEL'S SERENADE 
 
 List, list to the mandolin, mi muy querida, 
 
 Yet, soft as its cadences fall, 
 A melody sweeter my lips keep repeating, 
 Jovita, mi alma, each heart-throb is beating, 
 
 For Love holds my spirit in thrall. 
 
 Ah, lean from thy lattice, Jovita, querida, 
 
 Let fall the red rose from thy hair ; 
 With kisses I'll cherish it fondly, divining 
 Thy sweet lips have pressed it to comfort me, 
 
 pining 
 Alone in the midnight's despair. 
 
 Thrice lonely thy garden, for haunted, 
 
 querida, 
 
 By visions of vanished delight ; 
 The roses' rich perfume recalls thy dark 
 
 tresses, 
 Yon jasmine bower whispers of smiles and 
 
 caresses, 
 Where falls my lone shadow to-night 
 
 Now slumber and dream of thy lover, 
 
 querida, 
 
 Of Manuel who watches these hours. 
 Love wakes with the morrow, ah, sleep till 
 
 his greeting 
 Arouses thee, gladly, while swift speeds our 
 
 meeting, 
 For Love and the morrow are ours.
 
 SUB ROSA 
 
 HE 
 
 Under the rose I kissed her, though 
 'Twas just her small white hand, I know; 
 
 But she must surely guess I love her ! 
 
 A secret I would fain discover 
 Yet dread her frown, and lingering so 
 In present bliss, the heaven forego 
 That I might reach and she bestow, 
 
 Were I her own acknowledged lover 
 
 Under the rose. 
 
 But risk the depths of utter woe 
 And lose those perfect lips ? Ah, no ; 
 
 'Tis happiness just now to hover 
 
 Upon the brink, her waiting lover, 
 And dream of kisses sweet, although 
 
 Under the rose ! 
 SHE 
 
 Under the rose he kissed me ! Oh 
 Only my hand ! He might, you know, 
 
 Have kissed my cheek, dear, timid lover! 
 
 I held my fan quite high to cover, 
 My blushes should he dare to. Though 
 His welcome footsteps come^and go 
 He does not say he loves me, so 
 
 I can't his dearest wish discover 
 
 Under the rose ! 
 Yet all his tender glances show 
 His heart is mine and I I know 
 
 While o'er my hand his kisses hover, 
 
 If he should seek my lips, sweet lover, 
 I could but faintly whisper "No," 
 
 Under the rose!
 
 YESTERDAY'S ROSE 
 
 Here's the rose you gave me, dear, 
 
 Gave but yesterday, 
 Crimson petals crushed apart 
 From its faintly perfumed heart, 
 Withered now ah, beauty goes, 
 Heavy headed, fading rose, 
 
 Sweet but yesterday. 
 
 When this rose you gave me, dear, 
 
 Only yesterday, 
 
 Soft you murmured, with a kiss, 
 "Rose to rose, my sweetheart; this 
 Perfect blossom to my fair, 
 Sweetest flower of flowers rare." 
 
 Happy yesterday! 
 Ah, poor rose you gave me, dear, 
 
 Though but yesterday 
 Her lost loveliness and grace 
 Must to later bloom give place ; 
 Still so frail, today's will die, 
 Life to all, a kiss a sigh ; 
 
 Rose of yesterday! 
 
 Will Love's rose you gave me, dear 
 
 Gave but yesterday, 
 Outlive chance and change and woe, 
 All that Life may bring us, though 
 Rose of lips and cheek depart, 
 Still shall heart respond to heart 
 
 Just as yesterday?
 
 THE CALIFORNIA MEADOW LARK 
 
 What joy, dear lark, wells in your liquid 
 
 trill, 
 What hopes that silver cadence scarce 
 
 conceals 
 
 From us, and to your dreaming mate re 
 veals ! 
 Harsh was your querulous note or mute, 
 
 until 
 The summer drought fled at the south wind's 
 
 will; 
 
 Then in the pauses of the rain appeals 
 Your warble clear, while swift the new 
 
 grass steals 
 On field and upland to each waiting hill. 
 
 Now, though such rapture thrills your song, 
 
 though sweet 
 
 Those haunting falls of melody we hear 
 In your low, restless flight (still hovering 
 
 near 
 That hidden nest your love, and Spring, to 
 
 greet), 
 Yet, lark, within your strain some nameless, 
 
 fleet 
 And subtle grief compels a sudden tear !
 
 UNATTAINED 
 
 Some day the song that rings unsung 
 In haunting measures through my dreams, 
 With cadence sweet eluding still 
 Or voice or pen, may linger till 
 I catch its harmony that seems 
 Now fluted by an angel's tongue, 
 Ah, lyric grand that hearts may sway 
 
 Some day, some day. 
 
 Some day the scenes that swiftly change 
 
 On Fancy's magic canvas wide, 
 Isles of the Blest, or castles wrought 
 In dreams, with gorgeous colors fraught, 
 
 Some hand now baffled and denied 
 
 May grasp these airy visions' range; 
 
 While wondering crowds their plaudits say 
 
 Some day, some day. 
 
 Some day our ships now freighted deep 
 With hopes, with wealth from unknown 
 
 shores 
 
 May swift or slow, their voyage past, 
 Find harbor in our hearts at last ; 
 And sweet fruition, untold stores 
 Of longed for treasures we shall reap, 
 Fly, shining sails on homeward way 
 
 Some day, some day. 
 
 Some day that song unwritten yet, 
 
 The view sublime that mocks all skill. 
 The ship delaying, wish repressed, 
 Sweet dreams we cherish, half confessed, 
 
 Some happy day may garner still. 
 
 Along Hope's golden ways we set 
 
 Our eager feet, and longing pray 
 
 "Some day, some day."
 
 LOVE'S SHADOW 
 
 In every joy deep dwells the thought of 
 
 thee; 
 Thus daily pleasures mount to heights of 
 
 bliss. 
 
 The tints of sky, the violet's breath, the kiss 
 Of southern sun delights divine to me 
 These common gifts when shared thus con 
 stantly. 
 
 So, too, the solitude of pain I miss, 
 Its keenest sting, dear Heart, all lost in this 
 Warm, tender clasp of thy quick sympathy. 
 And Grief, avert thy tearful eyes, for know 
 I fear thee not when falls the whisper low 
 "I love you, dear." Dark Grief and cruel 
 
 pain 
 Those words assuage. But thou, stern 
 
 Death! I pray 
 With trembling voice and hushed heart day 
 
 by day 
 Thou might 'st, in this vast world, forget 
 
 us twain!
 
 OMNIA VINCIT AMOR 
 
 To love and understand, dear Heart! 
 
 What richer dole 
 Could Fate, with lavish hand impart 
 
 To fainting soul, 
 While to the vast unknown, regret 
 
 Linked with despair 
 Scourge us adown life's pathway, set 
 
 With thorn and snare? 
 
 To love! At many a shrine there burns 
 
 That rosy flame 
 Before an idol who returns 
 
 Love but in name 
 To slaves who waste in worship blind 
 
 Rich frankincense, 
 In constant sacrificing find 
 
 Their recompense. 
 
 For these no mutual thrall; sweet spell 
 
 With subtle power 
 To banish fear, and swift dispel 
 
 The darkest hour, 
 To reach a hand whose pulses beat 
 
 With answering thrill, 
 And love-light wake in eyes that meet 
 
 Responsive still. 
 
 Fortune may pipe her gayest air, 
 
 Fame smile, and power; 
 If Love refuse his presence fair, 
 
 Unblest that hour. 
 Crowned with success, with honor, yet 
 
 The heart alone, 
 Denied its kindred soul, regret 
 
 Claims for her own.
 
 To love and understand though roll 
 
 Wide seas between, 
 Love spans the chasm, and soul to soul 
 
 Crosses unseen. 
 From heart to heart leaps swiftest thought 
 
 Untrammeled, free, 
 Till distance shrinks, and space is naught 
 
 For sympathy. 
 
 TO-MORROW 
 
 A rainbow art thou, fair To-morrow, still 
 Luring us onward with that fabled gold 
 
 Where ends thy far arch. Blithe we follow 
 
 till 
 Death doth our steps withhold! 
 
 Eager to garner that illusive store, 
 Blindly we hasten toward the shining way, 
 
 Unheeding half the blossoms crushed before, 
 Thy fields we leave, To-day.
 
 AT THE MISSION DOLORES 
 
 A quaint old church, whose sweet Castilian 
 
 name 
 
 A century's use has left still sadly sweet, 
 Set in an odorous sea of tangled bloom 
 Whose billows, seldom stirred by wan 
 dering feet, 
 Sweep to the steadfast hills, that reverent 
 
 stand 
 Apart a little, from this silent land. 
 
 For here has Death so long hushed trem 
 bling Life 
 
 With icy finger, that in awe profound 
 The very world of Nature listens. Here 
 No quick, glad trill of bird, nor drowsy 
 
 sound 
 
 Of velvet bee; in languid tranced repose 
 A butterfly hangs poised above a rose. 
 
 The distant city's ceaseless roar comes faint 
 
 Like murmurs of a shell to listening ear ; 
 
 The golden sunlight sleeps on ruined tombs ; 
 
 The dust beneath has blossomed year by 
 
 year 
 Into white roses, till their lithe lengths 
 
 clasp 
 A wilderness of beauty in their grasp. 
 
 Forgotten are the dead who slumber here, 
 Though marble carved with many a cur 
 ious fret, 
 
 Gray and o'ergrown with moss, bears prom 
 ise vain 
 
 Of endless grief. We read with vague 
 regret 
 
 And turn, with sudden tears, where long 
 grass waves 
 
 O'er row on row of short and nameless 
 graves.
 
 At the Mission Dolores 
 
 Yet idle seems all grief; to wounded hearts 
 Like sweetest balm come thoughts of 
 
 peaceful rest, 
 
 Of weary toil a close, of dreamless sleep 
 With tired hands folded on a quiet breast. 
 Ah, Love Divine, whose tender pity sends 
 Thine angel Death and such poor marred 
 lives ends! 
 
 And yet to die! The words, this perfect 
 
 day 
 
 When lovely April smiles with dreamy 
 charm, 
 
 Bring sudden horror ; through the sunny air 
 A weird chill creeps; the heart in quick 
 alarm 
 
 Thrills every pulse with strange, unreason 
 ing dread. 
 
 The place seems haunted by a century's 
 dead. 
 
 And though the golden haze of noon hangs 
 warm 
 
 And glowing in the thickets all aflame 
 With scarlet blossoms, yet with subtle spell 
 
 Death and decay the silent city claim, 
 And cast the awful shadow of the tomb 
 Across the vivid hues and rose's bloom.
 
 A MISSING LINK OF THE PAST 
 
 Where, where is the time-honored apron, 
 The apron our grandmothers knew ? 
 It was ample and checked, it was ribbon- 
 bedecked, 
 
 Nay, 'twas every known fabric or hue. 
 And the linen ones whiter than snowdrifts, 
 
 So glossy with patience and starch! 
 Now where have they vanished, or has Prog 
 ress banished 
 
 Them all in her up-to-date march? 
 
 Say, where is that cute little apron 
 
 With pocket adorned with a bow? 
 (Fascinations untold did that small pocket 
 hold 
 
 For the fingers and eyes of each beau.) 
 Such dainty, such furbelowed aprons, 
 
 Each ruffled or ribboned or laced, 
 With strings most alluring, embracing, 
 securing 
 
 It safe to her trim slender waist! 
 
 Ah, where is that dearest of aprons 
 
 So snowy, so soft and so cool, 
 When " mother's lap" cured every sorrow 
 
 endured, 
 Every heartbreak of playground or 
 
 school? 
 It is folded in lavender, yellowed 
 
 With time and my kisses and tears ; 
 Her sweet face recalling, her fond caress 
 
 falling 
 It summons from long, lonely years.
 
 A Missing Link of the Past 
 
 And where is that old-fashioned apron, 
 
 The apron no new woman wears, 
 Since her smart tailor-gown most correctly 
 would frown 
 
 On such feminine frippery and snares ? 
 Then what earthly occasion to wear it 
 
 Would office or clubroom allow I 
 No small hands detaining, no home-cares 
 constraining, 
 
 No apron-strings tether her now ! 
 
 Dame Fashion, restore the lost aprons, 
 
 Make womanly home-life the style ! 
 Our ball gowns neglect and our tailors reject, 
 
 Reverse Folly's wheel just a little 
 And bring back the old days when only 
 
 The home seemed the dearest, the best, 
 When Cupid completely each manly heart 
 neatly 
 
 Bound fast with those apron-strings blest !
 
 LIFE'S PROMISE 
 
 The promise of life ! How it leads us, allur 
 ing 
 With rainbows of hope through the fields 
 
 of to-day, 
 
 And, ever that fairy-gold bent on securing, 
 We follow, unheeding the rough, thorny way. 
 
 Blest promise of life, for to-day may be 
 
 lonely 
 
 Or dreary, or sad with the bitterest woe, 
 Yet gardens of Arcady smile for us, only 
 Beyond, just beyond these dark shadows, 
 we know. 
 
 Bright promise of life, to each spirit fore 
 telling 
 
 Some radiant vision of power or success, 
 Of wealth, with its bubble of gold proudly 
 
 swelling, 
 Of honors or Fame with immortal caress. 
 
 That promise of life, shall we win, thus ful 
 filling 
 
 Those dreams of life's morning, its noon 
 day hopes, too? 
 Who knows? Or who cares in the happiness 
 
 thrilling 
 
 Prom "castles in Spain" ever builded 
 anew?
 
 Life's Promise 
 
 Then here's to the promise of life! May it 
 
 brighten 
 With magical sunshine our fast-flying 
 
 years ! 
 Some good angel's gift unto mortals, to 
 
 lighten 
 
 With glimpses of Paradise, earth and its 
 tears.
 
 DOWN o' THE THISTLE 
 
 On airy wings, these sunny August days, 
 
 Slow sails the thistledown ; 
 Through quivering seas of shimmering 
 
 golden haze 
 
 The fairy shallops float in aimless ways 
 And touch at many ports; but wanderers 
 
 yet, 
 
 For distant harbors are their light sails 
 
 set, 
 
 Though all too frail for voyage long, at last 
 Each bush and briar holds stranded vessels 
 
 fast, 
 While heaped in drafts of summer fallen 
 
 snow 
 
 Whole argosies lie wrecked the hedge 
 below. 
 
 But when the tradewinds sweep with desolate 
 
 cry, 
 
 Fast, fast the thistledown, 
 Sped by the mad blasts, wildly flutters high 
 Above the trees all landward blown, to fly 
 And seek in sudden turns and circlings 
 
 wide 
 
 A shelter by the fierce gale still denied. 
 While from their moorings torn, the captives 
 
 rise 
 
 In snowy swarms like startled butterflies ; 
 Far, far they go, and fade in headlong 
 
 flight 
 Against the gray sky, from my eager sight.
 
 Down o the Thistle 
 
 The harvest of the winds thus reaped in 
 
 haste 
 
 Poor wandering thistledown 
 Is swiftly sowed in fields remote and waste 
 That fringe the dusty roads, whose bounds 
 
 are traced 
 By ragged ranks of crowded stalks that 
 
 show 
 But empty silvery crowns, from friend 
 
 or foe 
 Kept safe by sturdy spines. The vanished 
 
 seeds 
 
 The early rains shall find, as onward speeds 
 The flying year, till under April skies 
 In countless hosts the purple blossoms rise.
 
 THE GIRL I USED TO LOVE 
 
 The girl I used to love ah, still 
 
 Her brown eyes haunt me (chiefly 
 When smoking in the twilight's hush 
 
 My world rolls backward briefly). 
 Dear eyes that held within their depths 
 
 A look I've cherished ever 
 Though fate, or folly, swept apart 
 
 Our hearts and paths forever. 
 
 The girl I used to love her laugh 
 
 (Sweet lingering echo) stirring 
 My pulses yet as when we stood 
 
 Long at her gate conferring; 
 I did not tell she may have guessed 
 
 The love my heart o'erflowing, 
 So there the parting of our ways 
 
 Each leagues asunder going. 
 
 The girl I used to love so long 
 
 Ago by slow years counting. 
 Or was it yesterday I watched 
 
 Her swift warm blushes mounting 
 And I, poor fool, unversed in love 
 
 Of Cupid, never guessing 
 'Twas mine, and not some other's name 
 
 Her maiden heart confessing !
 
 The Girl I Used to Love 
 
 The girl I used to love ah, me, 
 
 I love her still, her only, 
 Though here disconsolate T sit, 
 
 A bachelor gray and lonely. 
 Perchance what " might have been," her 
 heart 
 
 At twilight keeps presenting, 
 Dear laughing girl I used to love, 
 
 Lost sweetheart I'm lamenting!
 
 JUNE 
 (Among the Redwoods) 
 
 Along the stream our idle footsteps lingered, 
 The happy stream that hurried all the day 
 Bound mossy boulders, or o'er golden shal 
 lows 
 
 Where cool and dark the trembling shad 
 ows lay. 
 
 Above us towered the redwoods, straight and 
 
 stately, 
 And higher yet the scarred cliffs boldly 
 
 rose; 
 Each breath we drew was perfumed with the 
 
 summer, 
 
 For us and Love, the silent, charmed 
 repose. 
 
 " Sweet, sweet" the oriole called, and by 
 
 your heartbeats 
 Fast, fast against my arm, I knew you 
 
 heard ; 
 " Sweet, sweet" again; our glances met, and 
 
 softly 
 Your voice in passionate cadence mocked 
 
 the bird. 
 
 I felt your kiss, your tender arms enfolding, 
 Ah, vanished June, oh stern, relentless 
 
 Fate- 
 To Life's dull round we turned with weary 
 
 longing 
 
 For saddest joys, the joys we knew too 
 late.
 
 June 
 
 We parted then, with every pulse rebelling 
 Against the ban that set our lives apart; 
 You were all vows, and I all tears and sigh 
 ing 
 
 While wildly throbbed each hopeless, 
 broken heart. 
 
 DECEMBER 
 
 (At Shreve's) 
 
 To-day we met, the Christmas throng around 
 
 us, 
 You chose a ring to please your "latest 
 
 flame," 
 
 And I the diamonds old De Witt had prom 
 ised 
 
 Four figures, too before the "day" I'd 
 name. 
 
 You wished me joy in accents very chilly 
 And praised my taste ah, Will, that was 
 
 unkind 
 The choice was mamma's but his vows are 
 
 lasting 
 Not airy nothings, "summer girls" to bind. 
 
 Had you been true, no diamonds, Will, had 
 
 bought me; 
 But no, your heart the clubs, the races 
 
 hold. 
 
 A bitter lesson for a "bud" you taught me, 
 That girls are toys and nothing lasts but 
 
 gold. 
 
 Yet as we talked and o'er the city's clamor 
 The low, soft murmur of that stream I 
 
 heard, 
 Those golden hours when Love was ours, 
 
 still haunt me, 
 
 The oriole's call, your voice that mocked 
 the bird.
 
 FLOTSAM 
 
 O, wounded bird, upon the waters lying, 
 Thy ruffled breast laved by the ripples 
 
 long, 
 Thy wild eye dimmed, poor bird, thou'rt 
 
 slowly dying, 
 
 While yet the mountain echoes breathe thy 
 song. 
 
 Out with the tide on helpless wings thou'rt 
 
 drifting 
 
 Par from thy haunts, out toward the glow 
 ing west, 
 
 Only thy glazing eyes to heaven lifting 
 In dumb, pathetic longing for thy nest. 
 
 Dear sheltered nest, where sits thy mate low- 
 calling, 
 
 Or stills her tender notes to hear thy war 
 ble gay, 
 
 While over thee the evening damps are fall 
 ing, 
 And ebbs thy life, as ebbs the tide away. 
 
 Slow from the west the sunset light is fading, 
 
 Blends in the sky a mingled gold and blue ; 
 
 Dark lies the bay beneath the mountain's 
 
 shading, 
 
 Three distant sails gleam white within the 
 view.
 
 Flotsam 
 
 While thou, poor bird, with shattered pin 
 ions beating 
 
 The dark, cold waves that lap thy crim 
 soned breast, 
 
 Never again thou 'It sing the morning greet 
 ing; 
 
 Long ere the dawn thy weary wings shall 
 rest 
 
 Dim in the distance lie the sloping ranges 
 Of hazy hills drawn 'gainst the misty blue ; 
 
 Grim Tamalpais, the mighty giant, changes 
 His amber mantle to a leaden hue. 
 
 Darker it grows, a dying flame yet burning 
 Low in the west where last the sunlight 
 
 lay; 
 
 With saddened hearts we leave thee, home 
 ward turning, 
 And as we go, thy short life slips away. 
 
 All through the twilight as we're idly sailing 
 The ghostly space the harbor lights illume, 
 
 Ever I hear thy lonely mate's low wailing 
 That cannot reach thee, wrapped in end 
 less gloom.
 
 AFTER THE FIRST BAINS 
 
 Folded are your wings, O winds of summer, 
 
 Resting after long and tireless flight 
 O'er the curving, heaving breast of ocean, 
 From the caverns deep of western night; 
 Lulled to sleep, O tradewinds, once so 
 
 strong, 
 While at peace from days of clamorous 
 
 raging 
 
 Smiles the fair land you have scourged 
 full long. 
 
 Hushed the dreary foghorn's sad persis 
 tence, 
 
 Warning ever with that dolorous note 
 Of the snowy legions, swift approaching, 
 Wraiths of vapory mist that lingering 
 
 float 
 
 Silently the treacherous breakers o'er; 
 Blotting too with gray and clinging billows 
 Circling hills and lines of farther shore. 
 
 Mornings now with wild, sweet fragrance 
 
 blowing, 
 While the larks trill eager songs and 
 
 clear ; 
 
 Just the faintest green on southern hill 
 sides, 
 
 Soft the quail call in the coverts near. 
 Weird, chill fog and gray sky vanished 
 
 quite ; 
 Quickening sunlight o'er the glad world 
 
 pouring, 
 Just to breathe is rapture ; life, delight.
 
 After the First Rains 
 
 Changed the brilliant blue of summer 
 
 heavens, 
 
 Arching now in tenderest azure dim, 
 Flecked with filmy sails of cloudlets drift 
 ing 
 
 To the far horizon's crystal rim; 
 While we question, "Is it sea or sky?" 
 Clouds and ships on that vague edge of 
 
 silver 
 Meet and vanish, fading swiftly by. 
 
 Steeped in floods of soft October sunshine, 
 With late tenderness caressing still, 
 
 Sweep of bay and purple ranges distant 
 Float in clearest, farthest vision, till 
 Comes the sunset, flushing near and far 
 
 Quiet sea and sky where hangs the crescent 
 Of the faint moon and one mellow star.
 
 CHRISTMAS NEAR AND FAR 
 
 The Christmas bells ring out though bleak 
 
 December 
 
 Far, far remote appears 
 To hearts that, in our summer land, 
 
 remember 
 
 Gay feasts of other years 
 In colder climes, beyond the palm, yet 
 
 breathing 
 
 Sweet fragrance of the pine 
 From trackless woodlands, where deep 
 
 snows were wreathing 
 Their glittering garlands fine. 
 
 Then rang the bells in mellow cadence 
 
 chiming 
 
 Through keen and frosty air 
 Rang happiness, our answering heartbeats 
 
 timing 
 
 The Christmas chorus there. 
 But on this Western shore (an alien seem 
 ing 
 
 To winter's rigorous hold), 
 Perplexed we pause, to deem December's 
 
 dreaming 
 As flowers of June unfold! 
 
 Or from the high cloud spaces swift de 
 scending 
 
 The spirit of the rain 
 Hovers above the waiting hillsides, bending 
 
 Low to the thirsty plain. 
 Her vapory mantle on the south wind flow 
 ing 
 
 Athwart the mountain's crest; 
 Her hands outstretched with gracious beni- 
 
 son, sowing 
 Promise of harvest blest.
 
 Christmas Near and Far 
 
 Soon follow emerald leagues of young grain 
 
 springing, 
 
 Bright gold on sunny slopes 
 Our poppies scatter, while the larks dream, 
 
 singing 
 
 Of love and wakened hopes. 
 Stirs the warm earth with quickening 
 
 growth, and tender 
 The blue of Christmas skies; 
 Radiant with floods of soft yet brilliant 
 
 splendor 
 The low sun mounts and dies!
 
 NOT FOR OURSELVES ALONE 
 
 With anxious heart and feverish brain 
 His body racked by constant strain 
 
 Man heaps up gold 
 Or land or jewels though the whole 
 Does not content his sordid soul 
 
 In Greed's strong hold. 
 ' ' More, more, ' ' he cries. ' ' A million ! Ten ! 
 I shall begin to live but then!" 
 
 And yet and yet 
 
 Death checks his course with icy hand ; 
 His millions but a grave command, 
 
 Nor buy regret. 
 
 "A wretched being Fortune's slave; 
 
 Not wealth, but fame, but power, I crave ; 
 
 The power to sway 
 
 Men's hearts until my honored name 
 The archives of the world shall claim." 
 
 So others pray. 
 
 Granted the wish. Then on Time crept. 
 Their little circles smiled or wept. 
 
 And yet and yet 
 
 The hearts that answered to their call 
 Respond to newer masters. All 
 
 Save Death forget.
 
 Not For Ourselves Alone 
 
 "But Love eternal lives." So sigh 
 Or sing as golden hours go by, 
 
 That deathless Two 
 Who deem the world exists to share 
 Their bliss, or quake at their despair, 
 
 While passion's new. 
 'Twere vain to bid them understand 
 That Love and Grief go hand in hand. 
 
 And yet and yet 
 
 A month a year 'tis master, slave; 
 Dissension, strife ; Love flown, they save 
 
 Naught but regret 
 
 Wealth, Fame or Love, how brief your stay 
 With those who crave your magic sway 
 
 For selfish meed ; 
 Ignoble gains, and empty name, 
 And love that is but passion's flame 
 
 Are dross indeed. 
 To live for other's good! Let this 
 Be sum and source of mortal bliss, 
 
 And yet and yet 
 Abjuring self, thou'lt win a place 
 Of brotherhood with all the race.
 
 Two HEARTS 
 
 Sad heart, true heart, brooding o'er thy 
 
 sorrow, 
 Dreaming of the vanished joys of days 
 
 gone before, 
 Lost in utter darkness, despairing of a 
 
 morrow. 
 By cruel memory haunted a torture 
 
 never o'er. 
 Here is April smiling, and meadow larks a- 
 
 trilling, 
 " Spring is hope, and summer brings its 
 
 certain, sweet fulfilling," 
 While all the garden borders with violets 
 
 are blue. 
 
 Sad hearts, dead hearts colder still are 
 
 lying 
 
 Pulseless in forgotten graves, the wild- 
 flowers gay above, 
 Hearts that throbbed as madly, hearts that 
 
 left in dying 
 Sweeter hopes than thine, and dreams as 
 
 bright with love. 
 Thy life is yet before thee ; vain, vain such 
 
 wild repining; 
 See, through a fleeting mist of rain, the 
 
 golden sunlight shining. 
 The past returns ah, never, but April 
 
 every year.
 
 Two Hearts 
 
 Glad heart, proud heart, tearful prayers 
 
 breathing 
 Happy tears that spring from joy too 
 
 deeply sweet and keen 
 Round thy dear one ever the tenderest 
 
 fancies wreathing, 
 Praying " Heaven shield my darling from 
 
 the sorrow I have seen;" 
 Loving, ah, so blindly, yet with divinest 
 
 feeling, 
 
 April's promise sweet is thine, for sum 
 mer's swift revealing; 
 Before the early violets wane, thy rose of 
 
 Love shall bloom. 
 
 Glad heart, sad heart, each so wildly beat 
 ing, 
 One welling o'er with rapture, one 
 
 crushed by dark despair; 
 Thou thrilling to Life's sadness, thou giving 
 
 gayest greeting, 
 For both alike the tender smile of dreamy 
 
 April fair. 
 Life's mysteries hurry by us, and leave us 
 
 questioning, yearning, 
 But this year's spring shall wane, yet wake 
 
 with golden days returning, 
 And countless summers dawn and die, while 
 
 Love and Life go on.
 
 FATHER JUNIPERO SERRA 
 
 Out of the past, a century's slow lapse lend 
 ing 
 
 That half -forgotten age 
 The glowing charm of Spanish romance, 
 blending 
 
 With history's sterner page; 
 Out of the past one name in song or story 
 
 Illumes that noble throng 
 Of Mission Padres, as some planet's glory 
 
 The lesser stars among. 
 
 Serra renowned, the cross of Christ uprear- 
 
 ing 
 
 Within this halcyon clime, 
 Whatever our creed we honor him, revering 
 
 His steadfast soul sublime ; 
 True heart and strong, from its own fullness 
 
 reaching 
 
 Love's helping hand again; 
 Lips that were touched with fire from 
 
 heaven, preaching 
 Peace and good-will to men. 
 
 Crumbling to-day are Mission arch and 
 tower, 
 
 Sweet Angelus bells no more 
 Through the long corridors at twilight hour 
 
 Chime silver carillons o'er; 
 Fading the race who worshipped, but en 
 during 
 
 Their shepherd's name, foretold 
 In boyhood, by stern Destiny, adjuring 
 
 Him to this heathen fold.
 
 Father Junipero Serra 
 
 Faring from sunny Spain, brave Serra. 
 preaching 
 
 The sacred word of God. 
 From ancient Vera Cruz far inland reaching 
 
 Where none but Indians trod, 
 A score of seasons labored, ever deeming 
 
 His infinite task undone 
 And countless souls forsaken ever dream 
 ing 
 
 Of converts to be won. 
 
 Not here was Serra 's goal, but noontide 
 
 resting 
 
 His pilgrimage had won ; 
 The morn's long combat o'er, yet farther 
 
 questing 
 
 The patient heart begun, 
 Till San Diego's natives heard, clear-ringing 
 
 Each consecrated bell 
 
 From the green belfry of an oak-tree swing 
 ing 
 While grand Te Deums swell. 
 
 Soon rose the adobe Missions, white-walled, 
 
 gleaming 
 
 Under red roofs and quaint, 
 Rose the Presidio, war and peace both 
 
 deeming 
 
 Diego patron saint ; 
 Here too, this band devoted, starving, dying, 
 
 As the first martyrs shed 
 Their blood, the seed from which the Church, 
 
 defying 
 Death and destruction, spread.
 
 Father Junipero Serra 
 
 Famed other Missions, Luis, Clara, nearer 
 
 Dolores, and Gabriel, 
 Far Capistrano, while most loved and dearer, 
 
 San Carlos of Carmel ; 
 Here centered Serra 's heart, returning ever 
 
 After each toilsome quest : 
 Here conquered Death and with supreme 
 endeavor 
 
 He whispered "I will rest." 
 
 Under the ruined church he founded, lying 
 
 In his last slumber deep, 
 Through the long grass the sea-winds blow, 
 
 and sighing 
 
 His only requiem keep, 
 Yet moldering Missions, even his grave 
 
 may perish 
 Into oblivion wide, 
 While Serra 's name shall reverent memory 
 
 cherish, 
 True martyr, glorified I 
 
 Sure, kissing is dangerous indeed 
 Entailing no end of confusion, 
 
 For it often to marriage may lead, 
 That certian and swift disillusion.
 
 PHANTASMA 
 
 When, hesitant, the rain's light footfalls 
 
 greet 
 These arid hills, long waiting, brown and 
 
 bare, 
 What faintly-answering fragrance fills the 
 
 air? 
 A happy sigh from prisoned wild-flowers 
 
 sweet, 
 
 Gliding like ghosts each from its deep re 
 treat 
 
 At near release of weary drouth's despair. 
 Swift fancy bids the long procession fare 
 Till hills and intervales gay ranks repeat 
 With gold of buttercups, blue iris, dear 
 And sweetest violets ; here the orange flare 
 Of joyous poppies, lupines straggling 
 
 there ; 
 Bright perfumed cohorts, viewless yet how 
 
 clear ! 
 Phantoms of summer, wraiths of lost de- 
 
 light, 
 The first rain summons into airy flight.
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNI. 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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