THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Dedicated To My Father, 
 HENRY JAMES BLAND.
 
 Sierran Pan and Other Poems 
 
 With a Christmas Memory 
 
 BY 
 HENRY MEADE BLAND 
 
 "Nulla Dies Sine Linea" 
 
 THE PACIFIC SHORT STORY CLUB 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 SAN JOSE, - . CAL. 
 
 PRESS OF EATON & COMPANY. 
 
 SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA. 
 
 1922.
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY HENRY MEADE BLAND.
 
 PS 
 
 A WORD ABOUT THE BLAND POEMS. 
 
 Poetry writing is as practical as bread-making; and, from a 
 high ground, it is just as necessary to the life of man. Poetry 
 is bread for the spirit : it is the bread that is made of earthly 
 wheat and yet is mixed with some mystic tincture of the skies. 
 It nourishes all the higher hopes and aspirations of man. 
 
 Imagination rules the world : it builds homes, it builds cities, 
 it builds nations. It is also the winged spirit that builds all 
 poesy, revealing the beautiful in the commonplace, voyaging into 
 the unknown and giving to airy nothing a local habitation and a 
 name. It is imagination that transforms the ruin into a shrine 
 of pilgrimage, the bunting into the banner of a people, the 
 horde into a nation of free men. 
 
 And I commend in all persons not only the reading of poetry, 
 but also the writing thereof. I ask, however, that all writers 
 of verse shall make a serious study of the lyric art, and become 
 acquainted at first hand with the nobler poetry of the world. 
 Poetry-writing tends to keep alive the idealities of the spirit 
 and to keep us ever young and in touch with the higher realities 
 of existence. It helps to open the skylight under the great stars. 
 
 Henry Meade Bland has long known the dear delights the 
 Muses bring to the client of Apollo. For years he has read 
 the great poets, studied their lyric art, and has taught many 
 groups of young folk to know and love the poets of the world ; 
 and from the printed page he has helped to make known the 
 literary promise and performance of the Far West. 
 
 Beside this important service, he has turned some of his 
 happy moments into poems ; and these are now going forth in 
 a little shallop of song. Mr. Bland touches various chords of 
 poesy; but to my mind, he rises to his height in poems like 
 "The North Wind," "The End of Summer," "Sunrise on the 
 Sierras," "The Wind Among the Eaves," and in some of his 
 
 810932
 
 other poems where he touches wild nature. It is clear every 
 where in these pages that he rejoices in the wild marshes, in 
 the mountain trails, and in the free winds of our California, 
 a land romantic and beautiful. 
 
 As for Mr. Eland s other poems, I find in his ballad on "Sir 
 Henry Hudson" so good a swing that I am surprised that this 
 poet has not given more attention to ballad poetry. Another 
 poem that catches my eye is his "Reconciliation." This lyric 
 seems to have sprung out of some piercing personal affliction; 
 it reaches therefore into our own hearts. Here are some of 
 the stanzas: 
 
 Where lupines bloom and poppies blow 
 
 And poplars tower to the sky 
 And the long lines of new-sown wheat 
 
 Slope down to where the marshes lie, 
 
 Tis there beneath the poplar shade, 
 Watched by a thousand lupine eyes, 
 
 Asleep and alone in a dim, dim night 
 My own, my matchless Harold lies. 
 
 O cruel plover, cry no more 
 
 I,ike moaning tide or sullen wind; 
 For all unmeet it is to grieve 
 
 Except for those who fare behind. 
 
 I wish this little volume a friendly welcome. It is full of 
 
 the author s genial personality: it is charged with his feeling 
 
 for nature and with the brightness of his brave and ardent 
 spirit. 
 
 West New Brighton, N. Y., Dec., 1916. 
 
 EDWIN MARKHAM.
 
 IN THE HIGH SIERRA 
 
 SIERRAN FAN 
 
 I am fire and dew and sunshine, 
 
 I am mist on the foamy wave, 
 I m the rippling note from the field-lark s throat, 
 
 I m the jewel hid in the cave. 
 
 I m the lightning flash on the mountain, 
 And the cold rose-red of the dawn, 
 
 Fm the odor of pine and purple vine, 
 And the willowy leap of the fawn. 
 
 I m the sigh of the south wind of autumn, 
 I m the scent of the earth at first rain, 
 
 I m the wild honker call of the earliest fall, 
 I m the yellow of ripening grain. 
 
 I m the music no singer has dreamed of, 
 
 I m joy in the heart of man; 
 I m the lyric time of no poet s rhyme, 
 
 I m the glad, the immortal Pan. 
 
 THE DIVINE IN NATTJBE 
 
 On Shasta s brow the thunder sleeps; 
 But, with the lightning s blazing rod, 
 That burns o er Lassen s fiery steeps, 
 A voice comes from the mountain deeps: 
 "Be still and know that I am God!" 
 
 O er Yuba s plain the North wind raves, 
 And withers herb and blackens sod; 
 But, in the wild lake s roaring waves, 
 Is heard as from a thousand caves: 
 "Be still and know that I am God!"
 
 10 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 IN YOSEMITE 
 
 In Flight Across Oregon, 
 
 May, Nineteen Twenty-one* 
 
 I have read Henry Meade Blond s poem on Yosemite with 
 keen interest. It contains some lines that have true beauty; 
 other lines thtit are marches of mystic music. It is the most 
 elaborate poem ever written on the marvellous valley. 
 
 EDWIN MARKHAM. 
 
 Because there is a rosy memory 
 
 Of stream and flower and a face divine 
 
 Woven with high crag and lilied lea, 
 
 I, Inno, Child of the Dawn and the White Sunshine, 
 
 Write these soft rhymes and dare to call them mine. 
 
 Now in sweet fancy am I again a boy, 
 
 And lose myself among the ancient pine, 
 
 Climbing the highest cliff in silent joy, 
 
 Lorn as lorn Paris driven by Fate from song-built Troy. 
 
 Sweet saintly sister of the golden prime, 
 
 Who walked the high Sierran vale with me, 
 
 Well I remember in that starry time, 
 
 What wonder gleamed from stream and flower and tree ! 
 
 How sang the winds in witching revelry, 
 
 Glad as by nature- worshiper ever heard! 
 
 And merry was your happy company, 
 
 That breathed itself in many a quiet word 
 
 Like the low lilting song of some swift homing bird! 
 
 How can I read the glacier chronicle, 
 
 Of heaped moraine, or rock-wall scarred and seamed : 
 
 Its story seems to fall sardonical 
 
 Upon the yearning soul that once has dreamed 
 
 On labyrinthine mind or once has deemed 
 
 Perfection has been found within a face, 
 
 And all the magic of that face is reamed 
 
 Into his brain, woven in immortal grace, 
 
 Whose beauty only an eternal love can trace.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 11 
 
 Clear as a star reflected in the deep 
 
 Of silent Mirror Lake, that face to me ! 
 
 No breath of air breaks in upon the sleep 
 
 Of jewelled water, shining radiantly: 
 
 Thus in that quiet lake of memory 
 
 (As in that silver pool) upon the star 
 
 I look with eager wondering eye and see 
 
 The meteor- flash of beauty from afar; 
 
 And fain would turn the key, the sacred past unbar. 
 
 I walk in silence by the mossed stream, 
 
 The ousel sings, the summer clouds are high, 
 
 My mind runs only to a single theme 
 
 A magic face that ever flashes nigh. 
 
 I gaze the long prospect to the tender sky : 
 
 Lo, it is there, and ever seems to rise. 
 
 Then comes the gray dove s plaintive loving cry 
 
 Only to be broken by a sweet surprise; 
 
 Through the dark fir leaves gleam those eager talking eyes. 
 
 Too many memories ensnare the heart, 
 
 And seem to hold me from the days to be. 
 
 Farewell, O time, of which I was a part. 
 
 I turn in rapture unto the flowered lea! 
 
 The joyous thrush is rhyming now for me, 
 
 The waterfall sings all the summer hour. 
 
 Make me, O Crag, of thine eternity ! 
 
 Give me, O Vale, the glory of thy dower ! 
 
 Touch me, I pray, with thy great majesty and power! 
 
 How witching now to linger on the trail, 
 
 A-list for the first night-melody of Pan 
 
 Floating afar from shadowy rock and dale ! 
 
 How wild the revel of the joyous clan, 
 
 Of fairy and nymph, a merry caravan, 
 
 Hurrying at eve from tree or leafy bower ; 
 
 Or, when the new moon leads the starry van, 
 
 How tragic-deep the voices, hour by hour, 
 
 Boomed by the thundrous fall in majesty and power.
 
 12 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Perhaps the Master-Mind has subtly given 
 
 This, the great glory of the primal world, 
 
 Scarred with old time and with the thunder riven, 
 
 Where by His foot the stream of streams lies curled; 
 
 That, turning thence to where in power is whirled 
 
 The wheel by which He shapes the soul of man, 
 
 One may adore the flash divine unfurled 
 
 Upon the brow of smiling child, or span 
 
 The way unfolding life s inexplicable plan. 
 
 Those springs that sparkle like the Pleiads seven; 
 
 Those spires and towers that reach unto the skies; 
 
 Those winding trails, like paths high unto heaven ; 
 
 Those winds that sing the songs of Paradise; 
 
 That storm that shouts and roars, or wails and sighs; 
 
 Those streams that leap and dash and wind and wind: 
 
 That cataract whose glory never dies! 
 
 Is not this wonder infinite, and designed 
 
 To be the emblem eternal of the Immortal Mind! 
 
 All the sweet harmonies of Eden-Time 
 
 Are here. The Winds in summer melody 
 
 The water-ousel song; the rippled rhyme 
 
 Of snowy waters, and the minstrelsy 
 
 Of immemorial pine. Such harmony 
 
 Greek Homer played; on such a steep he sang 
 
 That time he fashioned white and joyously 
 
 The throne of Jove: for, as his music rang, 
 
 Straightway the temple of the gods in glory sprang. 
 
 Once on the trail I stood while sombre clouds 
 Loomed threateningly around the Valley rim, 
 Swaying in ominous, shadowy, angry crowds 
 Dark offspring of the summery seraphim, 
 Who sang a deep, titanic, snow-born hymn ; 
 Then came the thunder, not a single crash, 
 But like the shout of hosting cherubim: 
 The day was night, and fiercely lash on lash, 
 Wild dome and spire signaled many a fiery flash.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 13 
 
 There gleams the rainbow over Vernal Fall, 
 There glows the great Nevada, haloed white, 
 And haughty Half Dome lifts his granite wall 
 Where bold Tenaya flashes mystic light. 
 The clear Mercedes wings in gentle flight 
 Where the Great Fall is singing evermore! 
 The Bridal Maiden laughs, a radiant sprite. 
 There glooms El Capitan, and o er and o er 
 Recounts his thunder-scars. Be silent and adore! 
 
 A hundred thousand years of mountain bloom! 
 The tall Oenotheras, the mimulus, the blue 
 Pentstemon, fabric woven in the loom 
 Of April; violets dipped in sunlit dew, 
 Lilies and daisies and all the lightsome crew 
 Of poppy and heartsease for which lovers yearn, 
 New form their fragrance and their flashing hue. 
 Snowdrop, Azalea, and the rose eterne, 
 And all the fine embroidery of leaf and fern ! 
 
 In such a vale beloved Endymion 
 
 Reclined when Adonais secret-dwelt 
 
 Within his bower deep-hidden from the sun; 
 
 Where twilight mysteries forever melt 
 
 Into the starlight, and through the night are felt 
 
 Strange presences unseen. In such a vale 
 
 The star-crowned Bard of shining Avon dealt 
 
 With Fate, creating ghost or phantom pale 
 
 Telling of love and war in many a sweet-sung tale. 
 
 The great Earth-Mother carved, long, long ago. 
 
 And fretted these high crags, and gently drew 
 
 Her finger in the sand. She taught the snow 
 
 The way of the stream. She hung the rose with dew. 
 
 She hollowed out the caves, and tuned anew 
 
 The hills to low Aeolian refrain: 
 
 She gave the sky its deep eternal blue : 
 
 She changed the snow to singing summer rain ; 
 
 And trailed the ancient hills, an endless golden chain.
 
 14 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Here lorn Niam, the Oread of the Wind, 
 
 Waits by the shadowy river s flowered stream, 
 
 Moaning and sighing because he cannot find 
 
 Her lover. She waits where gleam on radiant gleam 
 
 The lightning flashes in a joy supreme, 
 
 Till longing sweet overfills her eyes of blue, 
 
 Waits the old tryst upon the hills of Dream, 
 
 Her loved Caolte promised to renew, 
 
 And now she spreads her couch in many a sunlit hue. 
 
 And here star-eyed Idalean Venus rose, 
 Bewitching messenger from gods to men. 
 Greek Hermes, so the Attic story goes, 
 Averred she was bom of foam: clear to his ken 
 He saw her spring fairer than poet s pen 
 Ever set forth. He erred. The magic One, 
 Sweet Love, leapt from the glorious rainbow when 
 The great Fall was wed unto the noonday Sun, 
 Fairest of all beauty great Poesy has spun. 
 
 Here on a flowery day came John o the Mountain, 
 And shaped he many a fair and deep-hid trail. 
 He saw with loving eye each stream and fountain 
 And sought each golden secret of the vale; 
 Until the white-winged angel, Israfale, 
 Touched him and beckoned, and gently upward led 
 Him over the Range of Light; and now his tale 
 Is told in flower and stream and sunset red, 
 And every tree the wilding folk have tenanted. 
 
 And I, too, came and saw, and loved ; and listened 
 To the divine song of the cataract and air; 
 Gazed where the starry domes in wonder glistened: 
 Where the high towering fir were ever fair; 
 Dreamed by the river, watched with tender care 
 The robin build, and many a happy hour, 
 Trailed through the meadow where the debonair 
 Sunshiny blossoms made a witching bower, 
 Fashioned of buttercups the happy children s dower.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 15 
 
 All the long summer afternoon me-seemed 
 
 To have been borne unto that Aiden-Land, 
 
 Where sweet the smiling leaves of lotus dreamed. 
 
 The spiced pine soothed with many a fragrant hand, 
 
 The happy brook laughed over the silver sand; 
 
 Only by Pan s wild flutes was the silence broken 
 
 While rosy Iris arched her flashing band. 
 
 L,ove drank libations from his chalice oaken 
 
 And a new friendship smiled with many a happy token. 
 
 The rainbow fades upon the purple hill, 
 
 But in the soul its glories never die; 
 
 A smile may pass as ripples on a rill, 
 
 But in true hearts its circles ever lie: 
 
 The gold that passes from the morning sky, 
 
 Is gold forever in great Memory s reign : 
 
 Psyche is ever a tenant in love s sigh, 
 
 And gentle Baldur, by blind Hoder slain, 
 
 Is deathless in spring s never-ending flower-train. 
 
 THE CONDOR. 
 
 He .sits upon his watch-tower, yonder peak,- 
 And gazes as the autumn sun goes down ; 
 And I, too, on my somber hill await 
 The sun to rim the far-off mountain crown. 
 
 His wings are now aslant as if to sail 
 Into the light he gazes at so fond 
 And well I know he only holds his flight 
 Till the last fire dips the gulf beyond. 
 
 And as he, when his golden sun is gone, 
 Wheels and is off upon a flight unknown 
 So when my light sinks to the sapphire hill 
 Shall I my sure flight wing unto mine own.
 
 16 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 THE WIND AMONG THE EAVES. 
 
 Tis the deep of autumn twilight, 
 And I sit beside the fire, 
 Watching how, like yearning spirits, 
 Reddening flames rise high and higher : 
 Then I catch the first faint singing, 
 That the magic twilight weaves, 
 And sit spell-bound by the music 
 Of the wind around the eaves. 
 
 O that vagrant soulful runeing, 
 Like a song that floats from far 
 O er soft wavy summer waters 
 That reflect the evening star! 
 Is there ever any message 
 That the heart or soul receives 
 Like this dithyrambic haunting 
 Of the wind around the eaves? 
 
 Druid with his burning lyre, 
 Pan s sweet measure on his flute, 
 Hebrew wrapt in endless yearning, 
 Poet with his deathless lute 
 All of these and more enchanting! 
 Who is he that ever conceives 
 Half this melody ecstatic 
 Of the wind around the eaves? 
 
 Chirp of cricket in the meadow, 
 
 Moan of dove or hum of bee, 
 
 Croon of crane in mild September, 
 
 Voice of one loved tenderly, 
 
 Lyric lilt or epic sorrow; 
 
 Heart that triumphs, soul that grieves 
 
 All are one in this wild paean 
 
 Of the wind around the eaves !
 
 17 
 
 THE MAN OF THE TRAIL. 
 To J. M. 
 
 A spirit that pulses forever, 
 Like the fiery heart of a boy; 
 A forehead that lifts to the sunlight, 
 And is wreathed forever in joy; 
 A muscle that holds like the iron, 
 That binds-in the prisoner, steam; 
 Lo! these are the Trailman s glory; 
 Lo ! these are the Trailman s dream ! 
 
 An eye that catches the radiance 
 That gleams from mountain and sky; 
 An ear that awakes to the music 
 Of the storm as it surges on high; 
 A sense that garners the splendor 
 Of sun, moon or starry gleam ; 
 Yea, these are the Trailman s glory; 
 Yea, these are the Trailman s dream ! 
 
 The wild high climb, o er the mountain; 
 
 The lodge by the river s brim; 
 
 The glance at the fierce cloud-horses, 
 As they plunge o er the range s rim: 
 
 The juniper s balm for the nostrils, 
 
 The dash in the whitening stream ; 
 
 Lo ! these are the Trailman s glory ; 
 
 Lo ! these are the Trailman s dream 1 
 
 The ride down the wild river-canyon, 
 Where the wild oats grow breast-high; 
 The shout of the quail on the hillside; 
 The turtle dove flashing by; 
 An eve round the fragrant fire, 
 Where the eyes of a comrade beam ; 
 Yea, these are the Trailman s glory; 
 Yea, these are the Trailman s dream!
 
 18 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 THE NOETH WIND. 
 
 I come from far, 
 
 By the northern star, 
 
 Where the cold white silence lies ; 
 
 Where the wild waves war 
 
 On the Yukon bar, 
 
 And the drear, cold icebergs rise. 
 
 To the ocean caves 
 I roll great waves, 
 
 As I wheel down the rock -bound coast; 
 And the weird cliff raves, 
 As the seaman braves 
 
 The angry scream of my host. 
 
 On the pulsing tide 
 I ride and ride, 
 
 Till the mad waves leap and run; 
 Nor is stayed by stride 
 Till my legions abide 
 
 Mid the isles of the tropic sun. 
 
 I moan and wail 
 In the tattered sail 
 
 Of the helmless sea-worn bark; 
 And my wild fierce gale 
 Leaves never a trail 
 
 Of the keel I swirl in the dark. 
 
 I was strong and young 
 When the years first flung 
 
 The groves of Eden in bloom; 
 And the paeans 1 sung 
 By my brazen tongue 
 
 Shall chant till the hour of doom. 
 
 THE POPPY. 
 
 The first to lift its golden head 
 After the autumn shower; 
 The last to doff its summer red, 
 A fragile, wind-blown flower!
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 19 
 
 LOVE S PURPOSE. 
 
 Love brings the blush into the fair wild rose; 
 And paints the white upon the heron s plume, 
 And flings into wild dream the prophet s prose ; 
 And points the starry lights in midnight gloom. 
 
 Love sends the gleam into the infant s eye ; 
 And makes the rustle in the bladed corn, 
 Instills the sweetness in the young girl s sigh, 
 Flashes the red into the whitening morn. 
 
 And if love did not with her shining wand 
 Entrance the sea and earth and wondrous sky, 
 Chaos would break his old restraining bond ; 
 And earth would crumble and the stars would die. 
 
 THE BLUE-BELL. 
 
 You ask, why, for the rose, I have no care, 
 
 Why choose I not to wear 
 
 The lily fair? 
 
 My flower, you say, 
 
 Is dull and grey, 
 
 And common everywhere. 
 
 I answer: Tis not perfume rare, 
 
 Nor pollen-burst, nor petal-glare, 
 
 To which my faith I truly swear; 
 
 But to this weedy wind-blown tare : 
 
 Because, once in the garden there, 
 
 My own true love 
 
 A chaplet wove 
 
 Of it, and garlanded her hair." 
 
 THE MEADOW-LARK. 
 
 Sweet Pan one time toiled all the morning long 
 To bring forth from an oat a merry song. 
 At last it came and, on her willowy bough, 
 A field lark caught and treasured it till now.
 
 20 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 A SONG OF JOY. 
 
 Joy! Joy! Infinite joy 
 Wild as the fire in the heart of a boy; 
 Clean as the soul of the laughing breeze; 
 Pure as the heart of the dryad trees! 
 
 The sky is mine, the earth is mine, 
 The air and the sea and all that is; 
 But when I shall pass I shall walk divine 
 In ways more starry fair than this! 
 
 I say I have lived in a joyous world 
 Where every loving dream comes true; 
 With comfort and plenty around me curled, 
 Where every moment is fresh and new. 
 
 It s great this life on the hills of Time, 
 To follow the gleam, and still endure, 
 To strive in joy for the High Sublime, 
 And know that the way of love is sure. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 Green of the earth, blue of the sky, 
 Flash of the stream as it ripples by! 
 Bud of the flower, song of the bird, 
 How can one think an unhappy word? 
 
 Smile of the child, joy of the youth, 
 Revel of both in the sunshine of Truth; 
 Stir of the wind and hum of the bee, 
 Goes it not all to the heart of me? 
 
 Faith of the woman, strength of the man; 
 Flash of the rain, and the rainbow-span ! 
 Joy is out in the world at play, 
 Is it not good, this new June day?
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 21 
 
 A CHRISTMAS MEMORY. 
 
 (Being reminiscent of a woodsy lodge once built by the writer 
 m the eastern Sutler county hills, and of a certain Christmas 
 morning when from this lodge the entire Northern Sierra 
 Nevada range, from lowermost foothills to summit, was white 
 with snow.) 
 
 Well I remember 
 
 How one winter long ago, 
 
 In sunny-skied December, 
 
 I built upon a green hill, round and low, 
 
 My pleasant lodge under a friendly oak. 
 
 Stroke on repeated stroke 
 
 I drove the nail; 
 
 And placed the well-shaped rail, 
 
 Until one golden set of sun 
 
 My handiwork was done. 
 
 And from my window on a starry Christmas morn, 
 
 Off to the east I saw as in a dream 
 
 The first dim red of daybreak faintly gleam; 
 
 Then glow on softened glow 
 
 As loving kisses come in dreamful sleep, 
 
 Or Star-flowers bloom in canyons deep, 
 
 Came the pale twilight over the far-off snow, 
 
 Still prophecy of that Great Spirit-Star 
 
 That poured a mystic wonder, beam on enchanted beam 
 
 Grew to a flaming stream, 
 
 And touched with glory all the things that are. 
 
 Then my wild pulse beat with an eager joy, 
 Beat the fierce music of a fiery boy; 
 I saw the field as in a loved romance: 
 Each leafy shrub and boulder gray, 
 And every grass-blade by the beaten way, 
 Lent beauty to each happy circumstance ; 
 And roundabout dear fancy hung a golden veil, 
 Such as a dreamer weaves into an olden tale. 
 
 Afar the long Sierra bathed in rosy light 
 Grew in splendor to a pearly white.
 
 22 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 High o er the snow flashed the bright Sun-Fire. 
 Like to a Titan raging in fierce desire 
 To foil a Jove Lent on a purpose dire. 
 
 It covered all the starry range 
 
 In magic such as veils the Seraphim, 
 
 Or the rare loveliness of the Cherubim; 
 
 And fair and strange 
 
 As on that aeon-aged morn 
 
 When Christ was born, 
 
 Gleamed in my eye from that high dazzling rim 
 
 The fresh glory, ray on radiant ray, 
 
 Of this new wonder-day. 
 
 Then as I gazed into the glowing flame 
 How seemed it ageless as that far sunrise 
 On hills Judean those ardent white-fired skies 
 And quiet winds, stormless and mellow, were the samr 
 Embodiment and kindly omen of the spell 
 Brought by the Love Divine to dwell 
 In human hearts forevermore, 
 Like timeless waters laving an immortal shore. 
 
 All day I mused among the conscious trees; 
 
 The hum of winter bees, 
 
 Caught in the coil of this warm sunny winter day ; 
 
 The rippled brooklet on the white feldspar; 
 
 The friendly talk of robins from afar; 
 
 The chorus of the high wild honker on his: way 
 
 To lakelets reedy, bent on plumy play; 
 
 The many-circling rills, 
 
 That sang their tunes among the grassy hills 
 
 These were a music to my raptured ear 
 
 That even now I pause with eager grace to hear. 
 
 And I can never be the same as I was wont 
 
 Before this gaze 
 
 Into the secret of the coming light. 
 
 Always the blaze, 
 
 Serene and white,
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 23 
 
 From out the great Sun-Altar 
 
 Lifts in a vision from its fiery fount 
 
 Whene er my footsteps falter : 
 
 And when the pulse is feeble and the day is long, 
 
 I think of that great hour and I am strong. 
 
 No matter what the storm obscures the skies, 
 
 For me this miracle of glory never dies. 
 
 TO THE MERCED RIVER. 
 
 What is thy word, O child of the sea, 
 
 To the pilgrim who longs to wander with thee? 
 
 Oh linger a moment to take me along, 
 
 That I too may learn thy rapturous song! 
 
 And the river called chidingly sweet unto me, 
 "Come, lone one, and follow my way to the sea; 
 For life is not rest, but it flows swift and strong, 
 So follow me now, and learn my sweet song." 
 
 I love how I love thee ! O child of the sea, 
 So wild, and so witching, so loving and free! 
 But what is thy secret, dear mystical stream, 
 That ever, for ever, thou mov st in a dream? 
 
 In some unborn hour, dear child of the sea, 
 Some fair day to come, I ll follow with thee. 
 A year and a day I wait by the shore, 
 And then I shall follow thee forever more. 
 
 MILDRED BLAND. 
 
 A SIERRA MORNING. 
 
 White and silent the snow stole in at night, 
 And touched with the spotless every fir and pine: 
 It softened every stony gorge and height, 
 And crowned the far-off hills with light divine.
 
 24 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 Oh, to hear the sweet, high piping 
 Of the quail that used to climb 
 In the hedge-rows of the homestead 
 In the olden autumn time ! 
 
 Oh, to taste the ripened cluster 
 Of the grapes that in their prime 
 Climbed the fence and lined the arbor 
 In the olden autumn time! 
 
 And the honey was ambrosia, 
 And a touch of the sublime 
 Marked the happy harvest-singing 
 In the olden autumn time! 
 
 Oh to hear again the music 
 Of the luring church-bell chime 
 That came floating in at evening 
 In the olden autumn time! 
 
 Like the odor of the blossom 
 Of the lemon or the lime 
 Were the kisses of the children 
 In the olden autumn time ! 
 
 And I see the distant faces 
 In a far-off pantomime 
 Gleaming in the evening fire-light 
 Of the olden autumn time! 
 
 But not sighs nor aspirations, 
 Nor the magic of dear rhyme 
 Can bring back those days of glory 
 Olden, golden autumn time ! 
 
 THE LINNET. 
 
 Of all the birds of sunny spring, 
 Commend me to the joyous linnet: 
 Through all the day on busy wing 
 He builds and sings for all that s in it.
 
 SONNETS AND BALLADES 
 
 SUNRISE OVER THE SIERRAS. 
 
 I mind me how one day-break long ago, 
 I heard the wild swan play his magic horn; 
 Heard the cold north wind blow his pipe forlorn; 
 Heard the sweet stream purl gently to and fro 
 In oaten meadows ; while the lyric flow 
 Of field-lark hymn called to the splendid morn 
 Until the sun, a light divine, new-born, 
 Lifted a wild flash over the virgin snow. 
 
 Then stood I like the holy orient priest, 
 Who gave unto the fire a sacred name, 
 And ever burned his: altar in the East; 
 Or, like the rapturous poet-king who came 
 At morn, as to a pentecostal feast, 
 And saw Jehovah in the Rising Flame ! 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Long have the years been since you went away, 
 And rough and tempest-torn has been the road, 
 Irksome and heavy been the cumbrous load ; 
 Many the lures to lead my feet astray. 
 Bitter the doubts assailing night and day! 
 Sorrow and sin have pricked with many a goad, 
 And fiends have lurked in many a fair abode, 
 Lashing me on when I was fain to stay. 
 
 But when, O shining one, at eventide, 
 I toss my bundle by the kind wayside, 
 Resting awhile with uplook to the stars, 
 Thinking on you, my paradise unbars. 
 And then where e er I am, old woes are o er, 
 Old sorrows fade away and are no more.
 
 26 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 AFTER BEADING EDWIN MARKHAM S HOE-POEM. 
 
 Oft have I paused with hushed and serious mien 
 In this, my journey through the vales of rhyme ; 
 Listened to many an ode and rondel chime ; 
 Heard the Arcadian Sidney sing serene; 
 With Wordsworth, mused on many a sylvan scene; 
 Tarried entranced at Shelley s note sublime ; 
 Paced with the Laureate down the halls of time; 
 And drunk with Keats the blushful hippocrene. 
 
 And now there comes a cry, a judgment knell, 
 
 Unheard since prophet s sorrow-cry of old, 
 
 A cry that warns like fate s storm-swinging bell, 
 
 A saga-cry whose echoes will endure 
 
 As the long ages, peak by peak, unfold ; 
 
 It is a deathless passion for the poor. 
 
 UNTO THE HILLS! 
 
 TO ANNIE EMBEE. 
 
 Today I wandered in Sierran Woods 
 With happy Pan. It was a magic time; 
 The moments were o erlade with golden moods, 
 As if the day were set to lyric rhyme ; 
 The pines faint Celebean incense breathed, 
 The purling river runed as on it rolled, 
 The mountain-tops in shining snow were wreathed, 
 White summer clouds loomed skyward fold on fold : 
 I saw the pensive blue-bell, azure-pale, 
 And heard the lark pipe all the afternoon ; 
 I sensed the sedgy-flowered galingale, 
 And, lo, the South-Wind chimed an olden tune : 
 I thought of you, and cried in joy supreme : 
 "O, friend, come too, and live this wonder-dream ! 
 
 ELM BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Through the soft motionless April air 
 They drift, noiselessly drift 
 Like beloved and happy memories 
 Out of a fadeless past.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 27 
 
 THE WORK COMPLETED, 1914. 
 
 One far-off day, when gently shall you fare 
 
 On some oasis of your chosen way 
 
 Some vale, perchance, where rest may bid you stay 
 
 I deem that many faces debonair 
 
 Your souls shall trace with tenderness and care : 
 
 For every wind shall sing them; every ray 
 
 Of starry light shall bear them; every spray 
 
 Of sighing elm or palm shall waft them there : 
 
 Then shall you hear again the busy tramp 
 Of hurrying feet in room and corridor, 
 Catch the sweet chapel hymn, or lift the eyes 
 To storied room and Learning s shining lamp, 
 Conning in fancy old tasks o er and o er; 
 Then you shall know that memory never dies ! 
 
 IN A SIERRA FOREST. 
 
 Here elfin songs are sung forevermore, 
 Waking sweet echoes of the pipes of Pan. 
 Here dance the nymphs to music sweeter than 
 The strains that ever blew from Lesbian shore. 
 Here, too, Apollo plays his rhythmics o er 
 And shapes a temple for the soul of man. 
 Here we may lift our brightening eyes and scan 
 The magic regions never known before. 
 
 Here morn comes glorying from her snowy portal 
 And rims the mountains with her fire immortal. 
 Here noon lilts melodies forever new, 
 And burns her incense over wilds of blue ; 
 And eve with kindnesses that never fail 
 Croons gently, and recounts a lover s tale. 
 
 COUSIN GEORGE S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 It does no good to stop and sigh, 
 
 And wish you re at the topmost round : 
 
 One well-made step is as fair to God, 
 
 As the leap you make of the peak at a bound.
 
 28 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Prone on the wellow sands, I long have gazed 
 
 Within thy book and then upon the sea; 
 
 And cannot tell which of eternity 
 
 Is truer emblem. Many the time, amazed, 
 
 I think upon the starry lights which blazed 
 
 In summer nights of old; yet longingly 
 
 I turn again, O mighty bard, to thee 
 
 In rapture o er the visions by thee raised. 
 
 And when beside the glowing winter fire 
 
 I take mine ease and with my thought retire; 
 
 And travel by thy side in fairy land, 
 
 Or touch the dream-lit world by Hamlet scanned; 
 
 Then am I like some devotee when shown 
 
 A mighty Avatar upon his throne. 
 
 RESTTRGAM. 
 
 (A Shakespearean Sonnet on Easter in Commemoration 
 of the three-hundredth anniversary of the Great Poet s death.) 
 
 I will arise. My face I will uplift 
 
 Even as the gold-hued shining April flowers 
 
 Uplift edenic faces to the rift 
 
 Of clouds that pour down gentle freshening showers! 
 
 I will today exult even as a bird 
 
 That threnodies in wonder over its nest; 
 
 I will exalt me in the mystic Word 
 
 Spoken by stream and tree; and I will rest 
 
 In the white sunshine of this rapturous day. 
 
 No more shall I be overlade with sorrow; 
 
 No more be weighted as with heavy clay; 
 
 For now I know there is a happy morrow; 
 
 Yea, now the Light shall lift me from this gloom, 
 
 And Joy shall blow a lily in full bloom!
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 29 
 
 NIRVANA 
 
 All that sweet April afternoon methought 
 I had been stolen away to Lotus Land; 
 Dreamy the shadows crossed the yellow sand 
 Like pictures by the strongest fancy wrought 
 In stories olden ; or like freightage brought 
 Afar from dim forgotten starry strand 
 Freightage, iwis, steered by an elfin hand, 
 And sought for a first true love is sought. 
 
 From hour to hour I saw the light illume 
 The enamoured brooklet waves, and overhead 
 Sighed sweetly the ambrosial locust-bloom : 
 So faint the odor from wild roses shed 
 That thus it seemed, in that sweet Eden Room: 
 Toil and drear Sorrow evermore had fled! 
 
 THE SONNET. 
 
 Each line should be five-petaled, a wild rose ; 
 
 Five accent-flowerets, iamb s richly blown; 
 
 Though a trochaic oft a line may crown; 
 
 Then, as the oat a wavy shadow blows, 
 
 An anapest with radiant ripple glows; 
 
 But twine it third or fourth. Your rhyme should own 
 
 Wordsworthian cadence prime, the which alone 
 
 Yields the strange fruit the poet s Eden grows. 
 
 This was the garland love-lorn Petrach flung 
 
 To gentle Laura. Such the mystic leaf 
 
 Rare Milton nurtured in his paradise. 
 
 Such blossoms soothed Hugh Stuart s blinded eyes; 
 
 Such bore the heavenly-flowered spring-time sheaf, 
 
 The manna that made Keats divinely young. 
 
 TO DOROTHEA J. 
 
 But one there was who held a quiet eye 
 To beauties of her own dear field and sky; 
 Thought on the green below and blue above, 
 Until the whole world turned in joy to love.
 
 30 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY THE SACRAMENTO. 
 
 Wild silken vines enwrap the willow trees, 
 Swinging their purple fruit from airy stem. 
 Wearing superb her leafy diadem, 
 The poplar nods to sleepy clover seas. 
 Frail blossoms drain their cups for honey-bees, 
 Or lean to touch the queenly river s hem, 
 Which ripples flashing nectar back to them 
 Lading with fragrant balm the summer breeze. 
 
 I move again within this realm of dream, 
 And pluck once more the wild rose by the stream 
 Wreathing it verdant in my memory. 
 Turning meanwhile, Beloved, my soul to thee 
 I crown thee with the flower, all the while 
 
 Happy as then within thy radiant smile. 
 
 * 
 
 IN CAMP AT TAHOE. 
 
 Here in the radiance of the summer night, 
 I find the secret of my heart s desire. 
 There drifts the incense from the piney fire ; 
 Afar the hills are shimmering with the light : 
 The poppies fold in sleep; but on the height 
 The murmuring cedar is a shining spire; 
 Gleams a white starland nigh and ever nigher 
 While Time is resting from his hurrying flight. 
 
 But hark, that Kildee song! So wistful sweet 
 One of a thousand lyric voices mete 
 To satisfy my strangely ravishing dream ! 
 Now truly is restored the magic art 
 To sing in joy my well-beloved theme 
 Ah, could you know the music in my heart ! ! 
 * 
 
 WHO ? 
 
 Attired rose-white she seemeth 
 As sweet as the summer wind ; 
 Or the lilies fair in her summery hair 
 Or the fadeless rose of the mind.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 31 
 
 ELEMENTAL BEAUTY. 
 
 Yea, evermore I feel myself in love 
 With elemental things ; the reddening rose ; 
 The flowing stream; the wind that gently blows 
 O er meadows oaten; the note of mating dove; 
 The woodland sweet with blossoms interwove; 
 The field-lark singing in the willow-close ; 
 And every bud that in the garden grows : 
 The star eternal orbed in blue above! 
 
 And oh, this love for beauty in the field, 
 This wonder-love for elemental things ! 
 Lo, as I muse on earth, and sky, and sea, 
 I am as one who stands with soul revealed 
 A lyric bard, who, high-exalting, sings, 
 Unto the World-Heart throbbing deathlessly! 
 
 NIGHT ON THE MESA. 
 
 TO ARTHUR AND MARGARET DRAKE. 
 
 Beauty with all her witchery is here : 
 
 The cricket s hymn, the warm night-breeze s sigh, 
 
 The mocking-bird alilt in measure clear, 
 
 The snow-white, full-lit, April moon on high. 
 
 Here is the sage with dreamy incense deep, 
 And flowrets fresh from the Maker s protoplast; 
 Here vernal cactus-blooms their sweetness keep, 
 And buttercups their golden blossoms cast. 
 
 Here is the starry clime, the cloudless sky, 
 Ancient Orion and the Sisters Seven: 
 They are the watchfires that never die 
 And light the way into a newer heaven. 
 
 Were you here with me truly I could but deem, 
 The Spirit Immortal had touched us with a dream.
 
 32 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 A JOLLY GOOD FBIENDSHIP IS SETTEE THAN All. 
 (A Ballade) 
 
 You may travel in China, Luzon or Japan, 
 Or lodge on the plains of the Ultimate West; 
 You may lounge at your ease on a rich divan, 
 And drink of red wine at a king s behest, 
 Then lie by the hour in slumbrous rest, 
 And be of deep joy a subservient thrall; 
 Yet awake with a feel that is clearly confessed, 
 That a jolly good friendship is better than all! 
 
 You may sail from your home-port a half-a-world span, 
 And touch the Sweet Isle with joy in your breast ; 
 You may sing as you sail, and shout as you scan 
 The white airy foam-flakes that ride the fair crest 
 Of orient wave: but, truly the test 
 Of laughters and pleasures that come at a call 
 Is fellowship rising in full easy zest 
 A jolly good friendship is better than all! 
 
 You may listen to Melba or Sembrich and plan 
 
 With a five-dollar note to corner the best 
 
 Of Caruso s high-piping; and be in the van 
 
 Of those who would fain with great Patti be blest: 
 
 But you ll learn when you come to the end of your quest, 
 
 And find that the sweetest in cabin or hall, 
 
 No matter what note or what harmony stressed, 
 
 The lilt of good friendship is better than all! 
 
 Envoi 
 
 Aye, rarer than any rare vintage e er pressed 
 For banqueter merry or bold bacchanal; 
 Aye, better than nectar e er dreamed of or guessed 
 A jolly good friendship is better than all. 
 To M. I. M.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 13 
 
 CANIM. 
 (With a memory of Jack London, Traveler) 
 
 I travel east, I travel west, 
 
 I loiter where the skies are blue ; 
 
 And to my fiery untamed zest 
 
 No land can be too strange or new: 
 
 And who shall bid me stay, yea who? 
 
 When on my pathway, I am whirled 
 
 For I am Canim, the Canoe, 
 
 And my trail is all the world. 
 
 The drear white silence likes me best 
 
 When in its fastness I am due. 
 
 I hurry feverish onward lest 
 
 Some happy isle I may not woo: 
 
 I tramp the tropic through and through 
 
 Or sands where orient seas are hurled 
 
 For I am Canim the Canoe 
 
 And my trail is all the world. 
 
 I would be great Ulysses guest, 
 
 Or keep the track where the dread few 
 
 Of traveled mortals fateful rest. 
 
 To be Columbus, I would sue, 
 
 And hold his way; nor would I rue 
 
 To walk where Saturn s rings are curled 
 
 For I am Canim the Canoe 
 
 And my trail is all the world. 
 
 Envoi 
 
 And I hold him forever true 
 
 Whose vanward flag is never furled, 
 
 Am I not Canim the Canoe 
 
 And is my trail not all the world? 
 
 AFTER READING "THE IRON HEEL." 
 
 Columbus saw his new world stretch away 
 After a weary range of toils and fears; 
 This other sees a-far the world s new day, 
 But only through a flying mist of tears,
 
 34 
 
 THE GARDEN OF MEMORY. 
 (A Ballade) 
 
 Strange fruits the timeless blossoms bear 
 In this far isle of long ago: 
 Perfume of locusts, debonair; 
 Nectar of roses; lilies of snow; 
 Poppies of dream that bud and blow, 
 And fade in fairy ecstasy: 
 And the leaves of autumn splendor strow 
 This garden of old memory. 
 
 Dream-petals of dear loves are there : 
 Friendships that grow and ever grow ; 
 Faces that are forever fair 
 Faces that like white fire glow. 
 Heart s-ease is there, and rue ; and, oh 
 The rosemarie drifts dreamily, 
 Mingling with wind-harp music low, 
 In this fair land of memory ! 
 
 And, oh the April starlit air, 
 That stirs these blossoms to and fro! 
 It soothes the wrinkled brow of care; 
 It cools the burning fire of woe : 
 And, oh sweet waters gently flow, 
 Flow to a summery sunlit sea, 
 Singing a rhythm none shall know 
 Save in this land of memory. 
 
 Envoi 
 
 Lovelier than is the mystic bow 
 After an April shower to me; 
 Sweeter than hope, or joy, I trow, 
 This garden of old memory! 
 
 December, 1916.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 35 
 
 IN WAR TIME. 
 (A Ballade) 
 
 Loved Shelley s lute is silent now, 
 And Byron s song a memory; 
 And, where the willow dips a bough, 
 No Devon runes a melody, 
 No mellow flute pipes minstrelsy. 
 The sea moans to the yellow sand : 
 The singer has heard the sure decree, 
 And gone his way to Shadow-Land. 
 
 And where, divine St. John, art thou, 
 
 And all thy fiery majesty? 
 
 Doth the Great Light about thy brow 
 
 Still shine? Can st thou yet clearly see 
 
 The wonder of the days to be 
 
 Upon some timeless palmy strand? 
 
 Or seek st thou, too, with lamp and key, 
 
 The dreamy way to Shadow-Land? 
 
 And may none tell us where or how 
 Fares the fine Poet-King; or he 
 Singer divine who trailed the prow 
 Ulysses sailed, and witchingly 
 Recounted, in sweet harmony, 
 The tale of sunny island banned 
 To mortal foot? Ah, joyous, free, 
 He also dwells in Shadow-Land. 
 
 Envoi 
 
 Ah, friend, we keep the muses vow 
 Until the Great Bard lifts a hand 
 To beckon gently and allow 
 A friendly way to Shadow-Land. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Out of the stillness of the dreaming soul 
 Hope breaks, as dawn, from out the darkened night; 
 She is a star from God s first flash of light 
 And points forever to a joyous goal.
 
 36 
 
 THE WIND BLOWS EASTWARD. 
 
 There s a wind a-blowing eastward with a glowing happy zest; 
 And it sends me forth a-singing on an old beloved quest. 
 
 For it tells me of the glory of the ancient sunrise hills, 
 And I see myself already lingering by the shady rills. 
 
 I am off to hear the meadow-lark a-lilt with song divine, 
 And to catch the breath of elder, and the odor of the pine. 
 
 Far along the trail I wander where wild honeysuckles grow, 
 And I lean to sense the riches of the golden poppy-glow. 
 
 As I climb the hill a rarer ecstasy enchants the soul 
 
 For among the oaken branches, there the bluer heavens roll; 
 
 And I pass within the shadows and recline upon the earth; 
 For to me the look at heaven brings somehow a newer birth. 
 
 Then at night the stars grow larger till I vision them as suns, 
 And a deepening inspiration through my growing fancy runs. 
 
 Hour by hour a myriad voices speak from out the magic dark, 
 Cricket with his friendly lilting, glow-worm with his dreamy 
 spark ; 
 
 Tree-frog rhyming for the rain-drop; cookoo sirening her mate; 
 Wail of lorn and lost coyote, terrified, disconsolate. 
 
 And my eastward wind a-blowing, runeing o er my joyous hills 
 Till I too am but a spirit wandering as a spirit wills. 
 
 Still my eastward wind a-blowing brings the news of morning 
 
 grace 
 And the touches of day s glory come like runners in a race. 
 
 There is fire upon the mountains, there is madness in the sky, 
 And great Phosphor slowly lingers last of all the host on high.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 37 
 
 Now I look into the morning radiant with etheric gold 
 And I leap to follow onward as its glory is unrolled. 
 
 Still my eastward wind a-blowing, blowing to the loving hills 
 Hark, there is the song of wonder, as of calling meadow-rills ! 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 Thy voice across the phantom years 
 Flows like a far-off silver stream. 
 I pause my eye-lids fill with tears 
 And living seems a feverous dream. 
 
 The old-time simple ways of men 
 In which our boyish lines were cast 
 Oh, what is now compared with then, 
 The sweet, the unforgotten past 
 
 ANNIE EMBEE. 
 
 Sweet Annie Embee lives by the hill 
 Where the purple lupines grow, 
 Where the poplars are fragrant by the rill, 
 And the amber grape vines grow. 
 
 Sweet Annie Embee has black eyes 
 And a wealth of somber hair; 
 And, oh, her words are soft and wise, 
 And, oh, her ways are fair ! 
 
 Sweet Annie Embee has gone to dwell 
 Down by the summer sea ; 
 Down where the breakers rune and swell, 
 And the sands are gray on the lea. 
 
 Dear Annie Embee, good and true, 
 Yours is a grace apart! 
 Yes, I will fly like a star to you, 
 And hold you to my heart!
 
 38 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 TWO INVOCATIONS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Come dear heart, let us go down, 
 And rest by the sedgy stream : , 
 They are not kind ; they fret and frown 
 Let us go down and dream. 
 
 Let us go down, and rest, and dream 
 For the leaves are dull and brown; 
 And we are hurt with wrinkle and seam, 
 And burnt with the dust of the town. 
 
 Come, dear heart, I cannot but deem 
 We shall find old love s great crown, 
 That your eager eyes will flash, and gleam: 
 Come and let us go down ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Come, dear love, the storms are gone, 
 The winds are lost and away, 
 Not a dead sear leaf, the sign of grief, 
 Hangs on the boughs today! 
 
 The chill March frosts, they are white no more 
 
 The elm-tree buds are red, 
 
 The meadows gleam with the rushy stream, 
 
 The sky is blue overhead. 
 
 Come, dear love, there is that in the air 
 That sends the blood with a glow; 
 Come out with me to the flowery lea 
 And feel the spring winds blow. 
 
 Come, dear heart, and let us be gay, 
 Gay as the red butterfly. 
 No more as the sea will our sorrows be, 
 And never an aching sigh !
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 39 
 
 WAITING AT TWILIGHT. 
 
 Tell me, O rose, 
 
 Will he be here tonight? 
 
 How slow the time goes! 
 
 Tell me, O rose, 
 
 Some happy wind blows 
 
 His white sail aright! 
 
 Tell me, O rose, 
 
 Will he be here tonight? 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 Look in my heart, dear friend, 
 Your name is graven there 
 In love without an end. 
 Look in my heart, dear friend, 
 And know, in love I transcend 
 All that is good and fair. 
 Look in my heart, dear friend, 
 Your name is graven there! 
 
 THE GIFT. 
 
 She gave me a thorn, 
 When I wanted a rose: 
 I can t think it scorn 
 She gave me a thorn ! 
 No, I m not quite forlorn ! 
 Why! do you suppose, 
 She gave me a thorn, 
 When I wanted a rose? 
 
 (To R. B.) 
 - * - 
 
 LUPINES ON MOUNT HAMILTON. 
 
 Where wrinkled, gray, white-domed Mount Hamilton 
 Lifts to the sky and yearns to reach the sun, 
 There too a thousand Purple Lupine eyes 
 Dream in the purple of the summer skies.
 
 40 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 THE VOICES. 
 
 The voice of Morning is a wild and joyous song 
 
 That sends the blood a-pulsing onward swift and strong; 
 
 And that of Noon a long and lordly bugle-roll 
 
 That winds an old and strange enchantment in the soul; 
 
 The voice of Eve is but a tender mother croon 
 That fails, and fades away in sunset all too soon ! 
 
 LIVING. 
 
 Life you tell me is a great adventure 
 
 With many chances ; 
 
 A game mercilessly played 
 
 In which you win or lose. 
 
 Your luck today may be health, wealth or fame; 
 
 Tomorrow ; sorrow, failure, 
 
 And then the Mysterious Silence; 
 
 The fates; move on without you. 
 
 And yet I remember : 
 
 "He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness 
 
 For His name s sake !" 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 These, are my flowers, 
 
 The flowers lovers love. 
 
 I found them in the meadows where the stream 
 
 Sings of white April ; and the mossed woods 
 
 Sigh in the year s first mellow fragrant air. 
 
 Touch them gently: 
 
 They vanish at a breath : 
 
 They are my soul. 
 
 When they are old will yon not keep 
 
 Some of their queer and crumpled petals 
 
 In the sacred book of memory.
 
 CAMPUS AND QUADRANGLE 
 
 INSPIRATION S GUT. 
 
 No silver or gold I bring you; 
 
 No gem from a Tyrian mine: 
 Not with fire or light I wing you, 
 
 Nor with gift of the prophet divine. 
 
 No wine of the gods I pour you, 
 That reward for a great emprise, 
 
 But this my boon is before you 
 A longing that never dies! 
 
 LINCOLN. 
 
 Man of stern destiny and greatening time, 
 He was the conscript of a cause sublime; 
 He knew the burning duty of his hour, 
 Linked to himself a sovereign righteous power, 
 Faced ancient error with a sword of flame, 
 And gave eternal truth a brighter name : 
 He burst a servile people s prison bars, 
 And gave the Nation uplook to the stars. 
 Hail, leader of heroic freemen, hail ! 
 When shall the sunlight of thy glory fail? 
 Not while the earnest eyes of strong youth gleam, 
 Not while the soul of man is touched with dream. 
 
 KINDNESS. 
 
 Would st thou be kind? delay not till the morrow; 
 For he who waits for kindness waits in sororw.
 
 42 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 COLUMBUS. 
 
 Dauntless he sailed upon his magic quest 
 That linked the golden East and mighty West. 
 No monster of the deep had terror for him; 
 He sailed as guided by the seraphim. 
 
 The silent stars might pale and change ; but he 
 Held the great course across the trackless sea. 
 What largess unto man that starry night 
 When the great vision broke upon his sight! 
 
 What smile benign the sun cast o er the world 
 When that first sail was gently, safely furled ! 
 Boldest of sailors since the world began, 
 He brought the vast and precious gift to man 
 
 The land where everyone can earn a share; 
 Where every home has plenty and to spare ; 
 Where man may think anew the spirit-theme, 
 May build again a happy Eden Dream. 
 Oct. 12, 1918. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 Our white-winged ship is sailing, sailing, 
 Into the mild sea-calm of the past; 
 And the twilight stars are flashing, paling, 
 And the oars of memory sweetly trailing 
 Into the mist-blown vast. 
 
 By how many magic isles do we wander 
 Back on this unforgotten sea? 
 By how many shores do we wait and ponder? 
 And still the old faces grow fonder, fonder 
 The faces that used to be. 
 
 O ship, may you ever be ready for sailing 
 Again to this mystical marvellous foam; 
 For the odorous winds, they will blow never failing- 
 And the old and the good will prove all-availing 
 To anchor you safely home.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 43 
 
 TO MY STUDENTS. 
 
 Though you go and come like the tide 
 That runs on the rocky shore, 
 Though you loiter but for a moment 
 And vanish forevermore; 
 Yet the rocks of the grim old sea-coast 
 You mould, and you soften and whirl 
 Till, clear and white on the wave-line, 
 Lie the drifts of memory-pearl. 
 And the broken cliffs of endeavor 
 You heal with the mild sea-cove ; 
 And the gray bleak crags of the headland 
 You dash with the snow-surf of love. 
 And thus in and out forever 
 You sweep and eddy in glee 
 Till the rough old granite boulder 
 Is deep in the calm of the sea. 
 
 INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 I am good luck: I owe no sway 
 To star or time or tide. 
 I make the good things come my way 
 I hurl the bad aside. 
 
 STEADFAST. 
 
 We do not know to what bright evening star 
 Our souls shall sometime stray; 
 But we can hold a happy look afar 
 And travel on our way. 
 
 Perhaps the island-girt Aldebaran 
 Will be that restful sphere; 
 Perhaps Eternal Wisdom s better plan 
 Will make our heaven here.
 
 FOR A PUBLIC SCHOOL BLACKBOARD. 
 
 What is the way to Manhood Town? 
 Never a cry and never a frown; 
 Never a thought that s dull or brown; 
 Never a word to admit one s dawn; 
 And this is the way to Manhood Town. 
 
 What is the way to Womanly Grace 
 
 A hand that keeps things well in place; 
 
 A smile of joy to lighten the face; 
 
 With a touch of kindness that grows apace ; 
 
 And this is the way to Womanly Grace. 
 
 AT GRADUATION. 
 
 We have shared in your toil and your pleasure, 
 We have mused; and have counted the gain; 
 And the tent of our youth has been changed, till in truth, 
 Tis a wonderful castle in Spain. 
 
 We have loitered at luncheon and banquet 
 
 Found the bread of our friendship divine; 
 
 And the jests we have flung, and the songs we have sung !- 
 
 We have laid them at Memory s shrine. 
 
 Was there ever a hateful thought harbored; 
 
 Or base word we whisper or plot, 
 
 That we would not now fling with its venom and sting 
 
 To the land of the dead and forgot? 
 
 We have touched the wild pulse of existence ; 
 We have wrought, and aspired, and schemed ; 
 And the music and rhyme of the ripples of time 
 Have made the world all that we dreamed. 
 
 Yet this is what it will come to : 
 To be in the game of life still; 
 While the brain-pulses last, to play hard and fast, 
 And then go to rest with a will.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 45 
 
 THE TBUCE. 
 
 Work and I are at peace tonight: 
 He is persuaded to stop the fight. 
 
 I am quite willing to let him rest, 
 Assuming that I have done my best. 
 
 So I ve bowed him out and shut the door 
 And bade him wait to settle the score. 
 
 I take my ease before the fire, 
 And prop my feet a full foot higher. 
 
 And then in dream I walk in truth 
 Down the happy path of a merry youth: 
 
 For a movie-film is the brain of man 
 And the soul is a strange little movie fan. 
 
 I whistle my dog and he wiggles in glee 
 As we trudge along the meadowy lea. 
 I listen entranced to a sand-crane croon; 
 And hear the great honkers rune and rune : 
 For a movie-film is the brain of man 
 And the soul is a strange little movie fan. 
 
 I walk in joy in the summery hills 
 
 And hook fat trout from the shady rills: 
 
 But Work peeps in through the window-pane, 
 And wonders why I m not at it again; 
 And says, "Where is that Shakespeare book 
 Whereon you silently look and look?" 
 
 But I play under a great-oak tree, 
 And sweet little Mamie plays with me; 
 And birds are nymphs that sing in the sun, 
 And butterflies oreads all and one : 
 
 For a movie film is the brain of man, 
 And the soul is a strange little movie fan. 
 
 And so my three-hour truce goes by 
 Till the logs in my fire ashes lie; 
 
 But I ll face friend Work in the morn, I know, 
 Far better because of my movie-show.
 
 46 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 HERMOD S BIDE ON SLEPNIR, 
 
 ("And Hermod, Odin s son, mounted Slepnir, the spirit- 
 horse, and rode afar into Darkness after Baldur.") 
 
 I rode to the blaze of the dawn 
 Where the sun s white furnaces glow, 
 Where the morning star swings swift and far 
 And the blazing comets go; 
 
 On the past the lights of Orion 
 Through the Great Bear s fiery zone, 
 Where chaos rides by the cosmic tides 
 And night reigns dread and lone: 
 
 Into abysmal darkness 
 
 With eyes far-flashing and red, 
 
 Like a sun we came in a pillar of flame 
 
 To the empire of the Dead, 
 
 To the side of the gentle Baldur 
 Who slumbered calm and deep, 
 Weird as a ghost on a wild sea coast, 
 Locked in eternal sleep. 
 
 TO THE FIGHTER. 
 
 Here s to the man who s fierce in the fight; 
 Who pins his faith to the things that are ; 
 Who backs his faith in the utmost right, 
 With many and many a scar. 
 
 Here s the wine of joy to comfort his soul, 
 With a cup to his purpose never to yield; 
 Here s a crown of laurel to wear at his goal; 
 Here s peace should he fall on the field. 
 
 To H. M. B., Jr.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 47 
 
 RENDERINGS FROM CHAUCER. 
 I. 
 
 THE DEATH OF BLANCHE. 
 
 So much of grief to me hath come, 
 That joy with me hath ne er its home ; 
 Now that I see my lady bright, 
 Whom I have loved with all my might, 
 Is from me gone and in the tomb. 
 
 Alas ! O Death, what aileth thee 
 That thou should st not have taken me? 
 When that thou took st my lady fair, 
 The brightest, freest, freshest-souled, 
 Most beatific to behold, 
 A nymph was not more debonair ! 
 
 II. 
 MORNING. 
 
 The busy lark the messenger of day 
 
 Saluteth in her song the morrow gray, 
 
 And glad the sun ariseth clear and bright 
 
 So that the whole East laughs with merry light! 
 
 A 
 
 DIVINE RHYTHM. 
 
 Clouds, then glory of sunset; 
 
 Darkness, then burst of the morn; 
 Dearth, then the gentle shower; 
 
 Sacrifice Truth is born! 
 
 The earth-throe, then comes the harvest ; 
 
 Silence, and then the word; 
 Mist, before the full starlight; 
 
 Discord, ere music is heard! 
 
 Erring, and then the forgiveness; 
 
 Heart s-ease after the strife ; 
 Passion, and then the refining 
 
 Death, then the wonder of life !
 
 48 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 A TtAT.T.ATl OF PEACE. 
 
 You say that the war is ended? Why, the fighting has just 
 
 begun; 
 For the war against evil is endless, and will last till time is done. 
 
 The czar and the kaiser shall perish and lie forgotten in dust; 
 But the selfish god of old mammon must lie with them in 
 the rust. 
 
 There s a battle to fight with Habit; a charge to be made on 
 
 Deceit; 
 And the undersea craft of the Liar must face the destroying 
 
 fleet 
 
 There s the poisoned gas of Envy that kills without reason 
 
 or ruth, 
 And the selfish propaganda that cankers the wells of Truth. 
 
 And God has marshaled his conscripts to fight for the Cross 
 
 and Crown, 
 To shatter the legions of Darkness, and batter the whole crew 
 
 down. 
 
 The flowers will grow in Flanders, the lilies in France again ; 
 And the lands in turbulent Russia will yellow with golden grain : 
 
 And Italy s gardens will flourish, her oranges garnish the hills, 
 And figs and olives in Smyrna will bloom by the running rills: 
 
 But Doubt and Despair and Failure, those imps of the devil s 
 
 horde, 
 Must be stormed in their iron castles and put to the two-edged 
 
 sword. 
 
 And disease and the drug and the wine-cup, that bring sure 
 
 death in their train, 
 Must be hung with the heavy millstone and dropped in the 
 
 sounding main. 
 
 Who says that the war has ended ? The battles are not half won ; 
 For the fight against wrong is endless and will last until time 
 is done.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 49 
 
 AT MONTALVO. 
 
 There is magic in the sunshine; there is May-time in the sky; 
 And soft summery clouds are whitening in their sunny march 
 on high. 
 
 Sing the linnets in the arbor, shout the quail upon the hill; 
 And a little song of wonder croons the darkly-shaded rill. 
 
 Shine the sylphy purple lilacs, azure springtime s radiant dower. 
 Shapes of sapphire sky thick-woven for a happy lover s bower. 
 
 Rune the stately sempervirens memories of the olden time; 
 And the songs they chant are touched with many a tale of 
 merry rhyme. 
 
 Here is joy and here is wonder! Time delays his hurrying 
 
 flight: 
 Lo, the far fields spread and greaten to a glory and a light! 
 
 Here we hark back to the splendor of the shining names that 
 
 were: 
 Saint and soldier; prophet, thinker; poet and enlightener. 
 
 Here from this fair grove of Aidenn, gaze we happy on our 
 
 way: 
 For the trail of the tomorrow will be better than today. 
 
 So we loiter with the Dreamer, great Montalvo come again, 
 Touched with spirit and fine vision of the joys and hopes of 
 
 men. 
 May, 1921. 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 Tis not alone the grateful word we give, 
 Spirit Divine, for sun, and flower, and rill, 
 And furry folk, and birds that live 
 On leafy-mantled hill; 
 
 Nay, not for these, the thankful eye we lift 
 And chant the song of praise in solemn part; 
 But for thy wondrous spirit-gift, 
 The kindly human heart!
 
 SO SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 CONTRA COSTA. 
 To S. E. H. 
 
 A sea that mirrors earth and sky, 
 A shadowy heron sailing by, 
 Mild mother-hills all green and low, 
 And fields where stainless flowers blow ! 
 
 When-e er I muse upon the scene 
 I feel the touch of peace serene, 
 And then the restless fire-swept brain 
 Is, for a breath, itself again. 
 
 And now, O loyal friend, with you 
 I trail the sacred paths anew; 
 Again I dream beneath the trees, 
 And scent the odor-laden breeze. 
 
 And is it not worth more than gold 
 To muse thus on the days of old, 
 And catch once more that glory white 
 That gathers to immortal light? 
 
 SAN DIEGO-BY-THE-SEA. 
 
 Never was April field more fair 
 Unto mine eye than thee ! 
 Thy myriad- jeweled waters gently wear 
 Edenic grace for me ! 
 
 Serene within thy sun-girt glory, 
 
 In truth thou art supreme ; 
 
 For, as thy naiad airs recount thy story, 
 
 I pause ; and dream, and dream ! 
 
 Or in the woof of gold romance, 
 Gleams there such mystery? 
 Or in the warp of starry circumstance, 
 Can such wild beauty be 
 
 Here by this murmuring purple sea, 
 Truly I could, I deem, 
 With all the gracious lilt of melody 
 Sing the Immortal Theme! 
 November 5th, 1921.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 51 
 
 SIR HENRY HUDSON. 
 
 (It is related that, after discovering the beautiful New York 
 river known by his name, Henry Hudson sailed in search of the 
 "North-west passage" to the Orient, where he hoped to find 
 the "Happy Isles." His men deserted in Hudson s bay, return 
 ing south with the Half-Moon; but Hudson never came back.) 
 
 The great Sir Hendrick spread his sail 
 He sailed in the cold north breeze ; 
 
 With veer and tack he sought the track 
 To the mellow summer seas. 
 
 To the mellow summer seas he ranged, 
 
 With singing cord and sail 
 Those seas, he said, in the sunset red 
 
 Know neither a reef, nor gale. 
 
 For he dreamed a magic strait somewhere 
 
 Loomed in the storm-swept coast ; 
 But through and through his craven crew 
 
 Were a-fear at the breakers host. 
 
 And the Half-Moon reeled in the stormy wind, 
 
 And crashed in the icy tide ; 
 But Sir Henry stood as a sailor should 
 
 With a joy in that splendid ride. 
 
 But his men a-near, in craven fear, 
 
 Gazed longingly behind ; 
 And the wild sea-mew fierce screaming, flew 
 
 And the salt gale whined and whined. 
 
 Then knives flashed bare in that thin cold air; 
 
 There was dread in the breakers boom ; 
 "Yon sea," cried the crew, "is a demon brew, 
 
 And you sail to your icy doom." 
 
 They launched his trim and stout life boat; 
 
 They gave him sail and oar ; 
 They turned again to the sunny main 
 
 Of the safe Atlantic shore.
 
 52 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Since then oh many a year has sped ; 
 
 But who has forgot that he 
 Was the very first that ever burst 
 
 Into that unknown sea : 
 
 And what of those mutinous awestruck men 
 Who fled from the great emprise? 
 
 No friendly bard shall shape a word 
 To cover their traitorous lies. 
 
 But him alone, who still sailed on, 
 And yet at last went down, 
 
 No wreath I bring, no song I sing, 
 Is worthy his great renown. 
 
 ON BERKELEY HULS. 
 
 Here grow the amber poppies, gold, like stars, 
 On hills as sapphire as a tropic sea ; 
 Here lark and linnet sing their magic bars 
 Sweeter than nightingale of Arcady. 
 
 God wanted Eden; so he chose these leas 
 And bowled His sky above them blue and wide; 
 About their feet He poured His summer seas 
 Where magic Argosies enchanted ride. 
 
 What showers of wealth and life this good earth brings 
 What rest and sleep and dream come flowing in ! 
 Lo, here is joy and empire, all good things, 
 "And here again man may forget to sin. 
 
 LOSS. 
 
 Joy came like the first flash of a Sierran Dawn, 
 Bringing again delight in flower and leaf. 
 A bride she wore her veil of silvery lawn; 
 And then she hid herself in deep autumnal grief.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 53 
 
 SAILING TOGETHEB. 
 
 To George Rankin Mitchell with memories of many fruitful 
 Poetry Hours. 
 
 A full white moon and a brimming tide : 
 
 Oh the surge of waters for me ! 
 
 For the winds are swift and the long waves lift, 
 
 And I sing a song of the sea ! 
 
 I sing a song of the wintery sea 
 While the wind hums in the sail: 
 We burst in glee from the quiet lee, 
 And spin in the freshening gale. 
 
 We sail and we sail till the storm is loud ; 
 But never a thought have we 
 But to hold the keel with a steady wheel 
 And master the surging sea! 
 
 THE END OF SUMMER. 
 
 Sweep on, O tide, across the yellow sands, 
 And rock the birds, and flash the autumn moon! 
 No more the long upbroken summer dream, 
 The days are gone, and, oh, too soon ! 
 
 And thou, O wave, upon the distant crag 
 Break thy wild heart from dawn to scarlet dawn! 
 No more will I the rolling billows ride. 
 The oar is lost, the rudder gone ! 
 
 And thou, my most beloved, who changest not 
 Line foamy tide or briny summer wind ; 
 I have a realm I consecrate to thee, 
 An inland of contented mind !
 
 54 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 THE QUEST FOR THE SEVEN CITIES. 
 
 A Ballad of the Colorado. 
 
 (Note. The Spanish* sailor, Alarkan, commanded the voy 
 age up the Gulf of California when Coronado went in search 
 of the Seven Cities of Cibola which were said to be in the 
 Spanish Southwest. Alarkan discovered the lower Colorado, 
 sailed up the river, was deceived temporarily by a mirage into 
 thinking he had discovered the cities, and soon returned West. 
 The Seven Cities were prophetic of the great cities of Southern 
 California. ) 
 
 Northward the breeze through the roaring seas 
 Bore the while sails afar, 
 
 And the prow a-shine kissed the surging brine, 
 And shot for the Northern Star. 
 
 The gulls flew fast, high ran the blast 
 The tall mast bent with the strain; 
 And the sailor he was as stern as the sea 
 As the ship spun over the main. 
 
 His keen eye scanned all the harsh drear land 
 That loomed on the barren coast : 
 But never a spire burned a lighted fire, 
 The promise of his high boast. 
 
 Far, far he sailed till the tides ran wild, 
 And mad reefs loomed in his way: 
 Quoth the Sailor then to his fearsome men: 
 "Lo, yonder our break of day !" 
 
 For across the reef the sea was fair, 
 And slept the waves like a child: 
 The helm he drew, and the ship ran through 
 Into those waters mild. 
 
 Into those waters mild he sailed ; 
 
 It seemed like a haven in heaven: 
 
 And his eye he raised, and he spoke as he gazed : 
 
 "Ahead lie the magic Seven!"
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 55 
 
 On into the waveless water he bore; 
 
 And entered that silent land: 
 
 But the bank of that stream like a weary dream 
 
 Stretched in relentless sand. 
 
 Then the stream grew red as sunset blood: 
 An incense perfumed the air; 
 And the seamen stood in wonderhood, 
 And gazed on the vision there. 
 
 For then a miracle spread afar: 
 On the shining sands there loomed 
 A City great; and with hearts elate, 
 They saw that its gardens bloomed. 
 
 A city, rich, rose fair and far: 
 Said the Sailor: "One of the Seven!" 
 E en as he spoke it was gone like smoke, 
 Or clouds on a summer even. 
 
 An endless way he sailed and sailed : 
 
 Then he turned to the setting sun. 
 
 "We are whirled," he cried, "in a phantom world, 
 
 And the river and sands are one !" 
 
 ********* 
 Bold Alarkan, know your mystic dream 
 Has doubly-sure come true : 
 For the barren sands of thosre mystic lands 
 Were waiting for yours and you ! 
 
 You saw the sign, you noted it well; 
 For the goal you have nobly striven, 
 And the God fulfills on these sundown hills 
 All your dreams of the Cities Seven. 
 
 A DAY ON SUMMER SEAS. 
 
 The sun-rise-flash and the sky-flame; 
 The blue sea calm as the stars ; 
 The long strong pull at the oar-locks; 
 And the gull on the white sand-bars ! 
 The morn is a rose-red ruby;
 
 56 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 An orient sapphire the sea! 
 
 Yes, these are the treasures I m after, 
 
 And this is the booty for me ! 
 
 I hear the crash of the breaker; 
 And the song of the wild bell-buoy; 
 And the lyric sweep of the sea-wind, 
 As it sings of the new-coming joy! 
 Comes ozone from magical islands 
 Afloat on the morning breeze 
 Was there ever a Circean bower 
 Bore perfumes enchanted as these? 
 
 The white sail-flash in the sunshine; 
 
 The swish of the long salmon-line; 
 
 The fisherman tense at the gunwale; 
 
 The bark rich with spoil from the brine! 
 
 The sea-rover proud of his capture, 
 
 And preening his sail for home-flight; 
 
 And, swiften than thought, for his loved ones 
 
 He flies as with wings of light! 
 
 The race to the mild, sheltered haven 
 With the fresh gale swinging behind; 
 The gossamer-white of the foam-wreath 
 The song of the sails in the wind; 
 A soul that is lighter than rock-spray 
 Back from its wonderful quest, 
 And lost in the mystical dream-world, 
 Of the great unmatchable West! 
 
 The kindly light in the faces 
 That watch when the day is done ; 
 The friendly smile of the comrades, 
 And the twilight of love has begun ! 
 The rest in the vine-covered arbor, 
 With a vision of days to be: 
 And one more gentle adventure 
 Is gone as the foam of the sea!
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 57 
 
 THE FATE OF THE TITANIC. 
 
 She steamed from port that April day 
 And fearless tracked her prime way West, 
 
 And a glint of gold and a joy untold 
 Companioned in her regal breast. 
 
 England s high grandeur was her dower; 
 
 The New World s diadem she wore ; 
 But her stout heart failed and the track she trailed 
 
 Is hers to trail Ah, nevermore! 
 
 Oh, it was stern Fate, or was it Death, 
 
 Or a direful greed and lust of gain, 
 That drew her down with king and clown 
 
 To rot in the ooze of the tuneless main? 
 
 O, life, it was rife that fair spring morn 
 When she sailed the trackless watery miles, 
 
 But the sea made sure with its deadly lure, 
 And sunk her deep to the Cruel Isles. 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 I sailed away 
 
 In thought one day 
 
 Out where a mighty squadron lay 
 
 But the sailors laughed 
 
 And took my craft, 
 
 And broke my spar in play. 
 
 Out and afar 
 
 O er the storm-beat bar 
 
 That squadron sailed ; 
 
 But never a tar 
 
 Came from that sea 
 
 But one, and he 
 
 Came tied to my broken spar.
 
 STARRY DEEPS 
 
 THE UNANSWERABLE. 
 
 When shall this passing show of love and time 
 
 Fade to an end? 
 
 Shall each life move to each in endless chain 
 Until, in sweet, unmeasured days to be, 
 The joy divine shall triumph over pain; 
 Then on, for aye, upon an undreamed sea? 
 
 Or shall the God descend, 
 And, with a flood of golden molten stars, 
 Cleanse all at once the earthy passion-stain, 
 And, sweeping past Orion s far-swung bars, 
 On in His flashing sun-wheeled comet-train, 
 
 Whirl till He blend 
 Time, love, and death in one last Eden-prime? 
 
 LOVE. 
 To J. and C. L. 
 
 Young as the swift heartbeat of a fiery boy: 
 Old as the pain that fell on sorrowing Troy! 
 
 Fair as the blush upon an April rose : 
 White as the light upon Sierran snows ! 
 
 Bewitching as the air in mild September : 
 Wild as the winds that blow in dark December! 
 
 Strong as the sprites that wing the boundless deep : 
 Still as the night, calm as Eternal Sleep!
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 59 
 
 MISSION SAN ANTONIO. 
 
 Here, in the shadow of this crumbling wall, 
 Twas said that Hope had set her mystic reign ; 
 Here the meek padre voiced the happy call, 
 Nor deemed his labor ever should be vain. 
 
 Ten thousand neophytes with many a don 
 Lifted an eye to heaven in humble prayer, 
 Oft made the sign, and called, in pleading tone, 
 The royal Christ to set his kingdom there. 
 
 Now even the rafters melt into the dust, 
 
 The owl and lizard nest in vagrant ease; 
 
 The nail and door-lock break with deadened rust, 
 
 Tarantula and spider hold the keys. 
 
 And they who grew the olive and the vine, 
 And plucked the poppy or the sweet wild rose, 
 Whose magic turned the grape to bubbling wine, 
 Have shut the door and gone, where ! no one knows. 
 
 AN OLD ADOBE DWELLING. 
 
 They say that, in the happy golden day, 
 This was the sweet-sung castle of delight, 
 That shadowed by these oaken branches sway 
 Dwelt the Castilian scion in his might. 
 
 They say the olive and the yellow wheat 
 
 Made plenty in these rolling sun-down lands 
 
 That morning quail and evening dove whirred sweet, 
 
 And meadow-brooklets ran in golden sands. 
 
 But now the eagle and coyote guard 
 The broken banquet-hall of that old dream; 
 And nothing of mirth and vintage song is heard 
 Save what is hollow echoed from the stream. 
 
 And where the Senorita took her rest 
 
 The ivy clings and poison oaklet grows, 
 
 And they who sang and made the laughing jest 
 
 Have shut the door and gone, where ! no one knows !
 
 60 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 FULFILLMENT. 
 
 One eve, a full-blown autumn rose 
 Fell sighing to the verdant lawn ; 
 Sighing, she breathed her nameless woes ; 
 "An hour, and we are gone!" 
 
 A vagrant word fell from the lips 
 Of one who thoughtless played with time 
 Wasting as breath of perfume slips 
 From wreaths of flowered lime. 
 
 But that frail rose a lover claimed, 
 And kept it as a true-love s sign ; 
 And that strange word a poet framed 
 Into a song divine. 
 
 THE TAVERN. 
 To F. H. 
 
 Death keeps a Tavern strangely built and fair, 
 And bids thereto how many a welcome guest! 
 
 Mark how magnificent the drapery spread 
 Upon the couch whereon the bidden rest. 
 
 Old childhood friends are there, and those in truth 
 The rarest and the best of sweet youth s prime, 
 
 And those who lo! have even yesterday 
 
 Walked side by side with us the Trail of Time. 
 
 Then send the portress, Death, to swing the door 
 Whene er the traveler clangs the brazen bell, 
 
 And in the Record-Book engrave his name 
 
 And light his room and bid him slumber well! 
 
 INSPIRATION. 
 
 It flashes in from the depths of dawn 
 Like some strange comet from infinite night; 
 Then plays for a moment in infinite light, 
 And then with its splendor forever is gone.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 61 
 
 RECONCILIATION. 
 
 Where lupines bloom and poppies blow 
 
 And poplars tower to the sky 
 And the long lines of new-sown wheat 
 
 Slope down to where the marshes lie. 
 
 Tis there beneath the poplar shade, 
 
 Watched by a thousand lupine eyes, 
 
 Asleep and alone in a dim, dim night, 
 My own, my matchless Harold lies. 
 
 And when at eve the tide comes in, 
 
 And round and full-lit floats the moon, 
 
 And faint and far across the marsh 
 Is heard the sand-crane s croon; 
 
 Tis then I seek the poplar shade, 
 
 And, while the eve-star swings its gleam, 
 
 I turn from sighing leaf and flower 
 To shudder at the plover s scream. 
 
 cruel plover, cry no more 
 
 Like moaning tide or sullen wind; 
 For all unmeet it is to grieve 
 
 Except for those who fare behind. 
 
 But, stately flyers swinging by, 
 
 Clang all your mellowed sweetness forth; 
 For, while ye seek your chosen isles, 
 
 He goes to claim his Happy South! 
 
 ON THE LIFE-TRAIL. 
 
 1 only keep a-climbing. 
 
 I know the stars of God are overhead; 
 And by yon far-off gleaming spirit-wand, 
 The meteor s gleam, I know that I am led; 
 And so I keep a-climbing. 
 
 I only keep a-climbing. 
 
 It may be yon blue range will be the last; 
 
 It may be many others loom beyond ; 
 
 And yet I know the summit will be passed, 
 
 And so I keep a-climbing.
 
 62 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 HUNTING SONG. 
 
 When the sweet south wind comes singing 
 Through the shining oak-tree leaves, 
 And the white wild goose comes winging, 
 And the winds cry at the eaves : 
 
 When the mallard s wing at moon-rise 
 Whistles through the deepening blue, 
 And you hear the crane s low croon rise, 
 I ll be coming home to you. 
 
 When you light the autumn fire, 
 And the flames dance on the floor; 
 And the sparks climb high and higher 
 As white souls climb evermore, 
 
 If the runeing of the cricket 
 Makes you tingle through and through, 
 Then you ll know the swing of the wicket, 
 For I m coming home to you. 
 
 FROM nATTffi.PTTT.AH TO CHRYSALIS. 
 
 Lo, this is the miracle! He broke his mask, 
 And set himself unto a finer task. 
 
 Shattered and useless dropped his worn-out shell, 
 Which to the timeless dust forgotten fell; 
 
 While, golden-spangled, chased with emerald rare, 
 Hung with an ebon cord, graceful and fair 
 
 As a cup wrought roseate from chalcedony, 
 Lovelier than a blossom of the lea, 
 
 He slept the long still winter hour by hour, 
 A happy elf within a magic bower : 
 
 He slept, a mystery with wonder rife 
 This secret-shapen beauteous essence, Life !
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 63 
 
 TO THE WHITE HONKER GOOSE. 
 
 (Wo one fois discovered the summer home of the great 
 snow-white goose. Nat. Hist. Note.) 
 
 Whither away, O magical seaman, 
 Into the deeps of blue and light! 
 Is it in search of angel or demon 
 Thou wingst away into infinite night? 
 
 Could I possess thy tireless pinion, 
 I d sail to the land of Heart s Desire; 
 And safe on the shore of Pleasure s dominion 
 My heart would glow with such living fire, 
 
 That mortals who saw my ethereal winging 
 Should deem that from some faint comet alar, 
 A spirit, on fair happy venture a-swinging, 
 Had lighted anew a burnt-out star. 
 Dec. 12, 1918. 
 
 THE THTJ.S OF LONG AGO. 
 
 Out of the Hills of Long Ago 
 A loved and solemn music steals, 
 And the vision it brings, the face it reveals, 
 .Smiles with a joy that softens and heals, 
 Out of the Hills of Long Ago! 
 
 Out of the Hills of Long Ago: 
 Yes, with the smile of a summer day, 
 The voice and the eye-gleam beckon alway, 
 Until as a child in fancy I stray 
 Far in the Hills of Long Ago! 
 
 Out of the Hills of Long Ago 
 I would not bring her again, if I could; 
 For the sun-lit brow, and the golden flood 
 Of curl, and the song would be gone, were she wooed. 
 Out of the Hills of Long Ago!
 
 64 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BIRDS. 
 
 No magic e er can shape the word 
 Of beauty in the homing bird: 
 
 High in the blossoms of his tree, 
 He weaves his nest in quiet glee, 
 
 Singing, the while his gentle mate 
 Labors with him, her heart elate. 
 
 With gossamer and curly leaf, 
 With thistle-down and oaty sheaf, 
 
 He builds and toils till, lo, a wonder! 
 Four globes of pearl her soft wings under ! 
 
 And then the jewels burst to light: 
 And four quaint feathery babies dight 
 
 In silkeny down are loved and sung to 
 From the green spray the nest is swung to; 
 
 Till the whole family in flight 
 
 Skur through the air as sunbeams white. 
 
 God gave us singing lark and linnet, 
 Creatures who joy for all that s in it; 
 
 Vital they are in that great plan 
 That runs from protoplast to man! 
 
 AMONG THE FIELDS. 
 
 The Sacramento winds among her trees 
 The same. The Feather leads her golden sands 
 On to the sea. And in the Northern breeze 
 The Sutter oaks wave long and leafy strands. 
 Upon the Sutter Hills the herder s bands 
 Of sheep and cattle crop the waving oat; 
 And tall north Butte a lonely turret stands. 
 The wild sand-crane still sings in mournful 
 Again and again her melancholy mournful note.
 
 SONGS OF AUTUMN 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 A twitter of wrens, a rustle of leaves, 
 How sweet tis to remember ! 
 
 Such is the magic nature weaves 
 When it is mild September. 
 
 A gossamer on the gentle wind, 
 White as the snow of December, 
 
 Bright as a spirit unconfined ; 
 And it is mild September. 
 
 A honker call from the clear blue sky, 
 
 Prophetic of November. 
 Tis answered by the flock s high cry 
 
 Yes, it is mild September. 
 
 A zephyry odor from the pine, 
 
 Light as a flashing ember; 
 A lark song with a lilt divine 
 
 Oh, it is mild September! 
 
 RAIN-PRAYER. 
 
 Blow, fragrant gales, from sunny southern isles, 
 And bring again the soothing Autumn rain ! 
 Blow but one breath the earth is full of smiles, 
 And all the flowers will be them-selves again! 
 The parching fields are burnt with droughty pain, 
 The figs and locusts beckon murm ringly, 
 The hills are grim with drear and dusty stain, 
 Bring then the cooling mist from palmy sea ; 
 And I too wait and yearn for your sweet ministry.
 
 66 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 A SONG OF AUTUMN. 
 
 "Tis old Autumn the musician 
 Who with pipe and tabor weaves 
 The sweet music lovers sigh for 
 In the falling of the leaves. 
 
 I have heard his distant anthem 
 Go a-sighing through the trees 
 Like the distant shouts of children, 
 Or the hum of swarming bees. 
 
 When he plays the leaflets flutter 
 On the boughs that hold them fast; 
 Or they scurry through the forest, 
 Or they spin before the blast. 
 
 And they frolic and they gambol, 
 And they cling to Autumn s gown 
 As the children to the piper s, 
 In the famous Hamelin Town. 
 
 Then they rustle and they hurry 
 To a canyon dark and deep; 
 And the piper, dear old Autumn, 
 Pipes till they are fast asleep. 
 
 A - - 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 The mysteries of being are 
 The same in protoplast and star. 
 They touch us in the hum of bee 
 And in the tumult of the sea. 
 
 The same in microbe of the slime, 
 And in the master poet s rhyme ; 
 
 The same in fire of the dawn 
 And genius of Napoleon; 
 The same in rootlet of the sod, 
 And in the cherubim of God !
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 67 
 
 AUTUMN REVERIE. 
 
 De sof willer-leabs am yellow, an de wil -goose sailing high, 
 And de fleecy clouds am gadd rin in de middle ob de sky; 
 
 An de ol Souf-win am blowin fum de far-way sunny isles 
 Dis de meller Autumn bringin alternatin tears an smiles. 
 
 Dar dat tu ky am a-goblin down the whisp rin popla lane, 
 An de punkins in de medda, dey am gittin ripe again, 
 
 An de oda ob de chicken ling rin roun de kitchen fire, 
 It jes mek one feel like singin in de great celestial qniah. 
 
 But dat yaller-hammer pipin in de oak-tree on de hill, 
 Somehow calls again de pipin ob a voice fo eber still; 
 
 An dat roosta-quail a-shoutin in de elderberry row! 
 Ken dat be da same ol bugle fum dat day o long ago? 
 
 Ol dog Tige he stiff an growly, an he only wag hi tail 
 Wen he heah Mis Nanna bangin on the chillun dinna-pail ; 
 
 An he slip inta de kitchen, an beneaf de stove he sleep, 
 Dreamin fight wif wil coyote when dey come to ketch da sheep. 
 
 Seems dat win he sigh mo shrilly dan he do w en I war young, 
 An Aunt Mary am so solemn w en de san -crane song am sung; 
 
 But I feel dat somewhar somehow, w en I heah de kildee sing, 
 Out beyon dis lonesome Autumn will come eberlastin Spring. 
 
 AFTER THE EARTHQUAKE. 
 
 Silence, O troubled heart ! 
 This agony of Time, 
 This surge and throe of death 
 This cry of death sublime, 
 Is but the Titan-change, 
 The Cosmic thrill sky-born, 
 The fire sung omen of 
 A new creation-morn !
 
 68 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 A SONG OF SEPTEMBER. 
 
 Sing to me, O mild September, of the wonder-days of old 
 When thy glory rose and beaconed flaming like a dawn of gold. 
 Sing of harvest-field and fallow, of the wild hare in the grain ; 
 Of the blue sky, and the white cloud, and the first sweet 
 autumn rain. 
 
 Sing September ! for thine hours never know the touch of care ; 
 Lit with mystical dream- faces, blown with strange celestial air ; 
 Graced with fire of sacred morning, blazing into shining noon ; 
 Draped with gold of magic sunset, and the great Sierran Moon. 
 
 Sing the maze of mystic twilight of those unforgotten years 
 When I heard the young stars runeing to the music of the 
 
 spheres. 
 
 Sing the loved autumnal leisure, and the dear remembered ease 
 Sundown hours of soft Nirvana from the nameless Poppy-seas ! 
 
 When Time knew no change nor shadow and space ever was the 
 
 same, 
 
 Ere the timeless spirit-hunger burned me as a desert flame ; 
 When a vision of wild Beauty touched the far mount and the 
 
 dale, 
 Tinged with glory all the meadow, haunted every hidden trail. 
 
 When she lured me to high places in the ancient sacred hills, 
 Where she wraps the peak in azure, and the sky with glory fills ; 
 When I saw her in the marshes, where the murky waters sleep, 
 All alone I felt her presence, saw her in the starry deep: 
 
 Saw her in the rose-white faces musing by the whitening stream ; 
 In the gentle forms low-runeing where the lights of evening 
 
 gleam; 
 
 In the silkened hair dim-whirling in the softened summer breeze 
 In the peal of laughter rippling from the merry orchard trees ; 
 
 In the dreamy glow of faces friendly in the quiet vale, 
 
 In those burning eyes that, deathless, flash the loves that never 
 
 fail. 
 
 I remember the last morning when I saw her on the wold 
 Changing as a summer radiance mellows into evening gold.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 69 
 
 It was then my sire, relentless fired my being to the core; 
 And a deathless aspiration drew me on forevermore; 
 And my heart beat wild and restless as I watched the vision rise 
 And the great adventure ever loomed a glory in the skies. 
 
 There cloud caravans of April, white as Phoebus fiery car 
 Ever beaconed me to follow to the wonderland afar. 
 There the tawny autumn sand-crane in a tireless swinging flight 
 Day by day persuaded onward to the distant luring light. 
 
 There the wild swan in the winter with a song that seemed a sigh 
 Circled on with little pauses where the greening wheat-fields lie. 
 The great comet pointed Southward, "Southward," breathed the 
 
 winds of May ; 
 And field-lark lilted sweetly, "Over the meadows and far away." 
 
 And the comrade hearts around me felt the beauty of the gleam, 
 And they followed with their faces lit with iridescent dream. 
 Was it strange I, too, unbridled my soul-deep desire to know 
 I who never tasted passion, never tasted human woe. 
 
 Thus I left the younger Eden for an Eden yet unnamed, 
 And this Eden in my fancy like a great Arcturus flamed. 
 Since those golden days, with passion I have traveled sea and land, 
 Have communed with sage and poet, ranged on many a fairy 
 strand. 
 
 I have sought the primal mystery in song and prophet page, 
 And I find youth s endless yearning burns anew in ripened age. 
 So I turn to those long dreamy unforgotten afternoons 
 As a traveler turns to listen to a singer of old tunes. 
 
 Sing again, O mild September, as in ancient wonder-days; 
 Bring again the sylvan wind-harp and the oaten meadow lays ; 
 For from Plato and from Sappho, yea I know it, I am sprung; 
 Since a wild wish rushes through me to be ever, ever young. 
 
 Sing the friendship of the fire and the merry star-lit night, 
 And the gentle twilight voices, murmuring in the tender light. 
 Sing the splendor of old summer, clover-field and honey-bee, 
 Sweeter far than isles Elysian fabled in a nameless sea. 
 Sing again ! For as I ponder by the chimney s tender gleam 
 I will catch the flash of beauty from the old remembered dream.
 
 70 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 NIGHT ON THE SACRAMENTO. 
 
 All the sweet voices of the field are here 
 The curlew-croon, the distant honker-call, 
 
 The whistle of the teal, or quaint kildee ; 
 
 And lo, the south-wind murmurs rise and fall. 
 
 Twas such a night as this the gentle Ruth 
 
 Rested content among her garnered sheaves; 
 
 And thus she heard on Jordan s bank, forsooth, 
 The olives wave their plumed and silver leaves. 
 
 Twas such a night as this Diana longed 
 
 For one faint glimpse of Cupid s magic smile. 
 
 But he, blind lad, ne er guessed the thought that thronged 
 Her soul, and moody stood the while. 
 
 Twas such a night as this the nightingale 
 Enraptured high-born Juliet s eager ear, 
 
 While love-lorn Romeo his wondrous tale 
 
 Rehearsed till even the stars were mute to hear. 
 
 Listen again, beloved ! the wild dove s note, 
 
 The far-off northern sand-crane s lonely cry, 
 
 Yea, now to my keen ear, there seems to float 
 The wondrous olden music of the sky. 
 * 
 
 THE WHITE HERON. 
 
 The heron calls from o er his tule fields, 
 White heron gleaming in the forenoon sun ; 
 The well-remembered stroke of wing he wields 
 Flings its white waves of radiance one by one. 
 
 He stands a shining lily by the deep, 
 
 Or floats a gossamer above the leas, 
 
 Or all day long where murky waters sleep 
 
 He moves a wraith among the willow trees. 
 
 Musing again the tears in silence start, 
 As glistens his rose-white plumage in his play ; 
 Lo, here he is within my heart of heart 
 A deathless memory of that elder day.
 
 The Keeper of the Sheep 
 
 A Story of Pastoral California 
 
 Note: John A. Wilkinson, a shepherd of the Mt. Hamilton 
 hills, came west in 1849, leaving behind him in one of the 
 Mississippi states a young woman he intended to bring to Cali 
 fornia as his wife, after he had later made a fortune. Death 
 of the lady put an end to the romance and Wilkinson became 
 a herder. He lived alone and lost to society, his home being 
 in a deep canyon, in the hills east of San Jose. With infinite 
 pains he taught himself to play on a Cappa violin, an heirloom 
 of his family, and grew to be an expert. 
 
 His lonely life was broken by an invitation to be musician for 
 a family-birthday-celebration held in Hall s Valley on the grade 
 to Mt. Hamilton. It was a combination fandango, feast, and 
 all-night dance, with Wilkinson as the violinist; and was the 
 occasion of the celebration of the birthday of the oldest woman 
 of the circle, a great grandmother. This woman developed a 
 very kindly liking for the player, enabling him to forget his old 
 disappointment, and enter a new sphere of content and joy. 
 
 The last time he went to play his friend had passed away, and, 
 to his great disappointment the celebration had been abandoned. 
 
 Saint Francis Bay is calm and deep, 
 And to the east the foot-hills sleep 
 Hills that are wrapped in dreamy mist, 
 Which folds away when faintly kissed 
 By the roseate red of the morning sun : 
 And when the shepherd s task is done, 
 And the flocks lie sheltered beneath the trees, 
 He turns to scan the bay and sees 
 The gleaming prow, the whitening sail, 
 And far away, all gray and pale, 
 The blue Prieta looming high 
 Into the realm of cloud and sky. 
 
 And many a herd drank deep content 
 That elder day; and Plenty lent 
 A favoring hand to him who led 
 The gentle flock. She loving spread 
 Her oaten field and greening hill, 
 And lined them with the singing rill.
 
 72 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 These low round greening mother-hills 
 Seem to hark back to Kedron rills ; 
 For the broad columns of woolen-gray 
 Cover their warm slopes far and away. 
 Another David tunes the string 
 At the warm eve s foregathering, 
 The flock moves gently, one by one; 
 And sways ahead in the reddening sun, 
 Till all the folding well is done. 
 
 Far up clear Lara s pebbly stream, 
 
 A shepherd s cabin windows gleam. 
 
 There grey doves chant the whole day long, 
 
 And join at eve with the cricket s song. 
 
 The wind hums in the live-oak trees 
 
 Its ancient sweet-sung melodies. 
 
 They seem to echo the low chords deep 
 
 Wrought by this keeper of the sheep : 
 
 For since a wandering shepherd-boy 
 
 The violin has been his joy. 
 
 Three hundred years that instrument 
 Has to man s heart its magic sent: 
 For many a winter it has to him 
 Lent its soft tones and echoes dim. 
 Like the low song of the April wind, 
 Its music seemed to his gentle mind. 
 
 This night to lyric song he turns, 
 For in his soul a strange note burns. 
 He plays the rippling music through 
 That makes old laughter flash as new. 
 Again he strikes the silvery whirl 
 That captivates the boy and girl, 
 Who, eager, join the country dance; 
 And now, in the coil of an old romance, 
 He strikes an unforgotten tone, 
 Recalling faces long since gone. 
 And there the figure stands once more, 
 Companion of many a year before :
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 73 
 
 He sees her wind-blown stinlit hair, 
 And he counts clearly the dimples where 
 The rosy red and lily white 
 Blend like the dawn with full daylight ; 
 And while he plays the vision bright 
 Dances and gleams, an airy sprite. 
 
 Sometimes his note is a curlew-croon 
 That echoes and lilts to a snow-white moon 
 In the wintry wild November; 
 Sometimes a trill from a sea-sand dune 
 Or the night-wind rune of a low sweet tune 
 In the witching mild September. 
 
 What passions lurk in his lone heart ! 
 
 What memories through his fancy dart, 
 
 In this his chosen rendezvous, 
 
 Lost to all human touch and view ! 
 
 A lonely keeper of the flock, 
 
 Companion of the tree and rock ! 
 
 No aim save duty and the herd; 
 
 No one with whom to barter a word ! 
 
 This and no more (so the great God wills) 
 
 A lonely shepherd of the hills ! 
 
 And who is he that, all alone, 
 
 Waits on these hills of the western sun? 
 
 A grayed and wrinkled man is he, 
 
 With years in full the three-score-ten, 
 
 A towering pioneer of men, 
 
 Rough-bearded, strong, erect and free, 
 
 A lover of stern liberty; 
 
 Yet gentle as a mother when 
 
 She holds her offspring to her breast, 
 
 And lulls it to a fire-light rest. 
 
 What of the man ! He looks afar 
 To where the grain fields ripening are, 
 Where the broad fig leaves fill the sky, 
 And the rich herds of cattle lie.
 
 74 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 A vision haunts him and a-list 
 
 He stands, a statue in a dream, 
 
 A dreamer held as by a gleam 
 
 Of light from some old Garden-tryst. 
 
 It is a picture holds him so 
 
 A picture from the silent past : 
 
 He sees the bright red roses glow, 
 
 And eyes whose magic holds him fast. 
 
 These were the eyes that held him thralled 
 
 A younger day, as youth is held. 
 
 He gave to her an eve of eld, 
 
 The love that never is recalled. 
 
 Then traveled he many a weary day 
 O er desert land and mountain trail, 
 Where were wild men and dangers bale, 
 And Death lurked ever for his prey. 
 
 He crossed the high rim of the world 
 Where nature-giants caught and hurled 
 The fragments of the breaking earth, 
 Where cataclysms have their birth. 
 He faced the lion and the bear; 
 He wintered in the snow-storms where 
 Dread hunger ruled and grim despair. 
 At last from a Sierran height 
 He saw his blue hills rise afar 
 Blue as the sea, calm as a star, 
 Rise over a valley of delight; 
 Blue as the sky they rose in air, 
 Omen of fields and streamlets fair, 
 Where greening tree and spreading flower 
 Grew as a rich and endless dower. 
 
 He crossed the reedy lakelets deep 
 That, in their silent reaches, keep 
 How many a mirrored shape and form 
 Of summer cloud or autumn storm. 
 
 At length by Lara s ferny stream 
 He sought fulfillment of his dream.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 75 
 
 What angel of Death, what fiend of fate 
 Made him, at length, disconsolate, 
 Crossed him in love, left him afar, 
 Silent and lone as the Northern Star ! 
 
 The dim twilight is now begun; 
 
 The sheep were folded at set of sun ; 
 
 And by the glowing oak-log fire, 
 
 Whose flames rise ever high and higher, 
 
 The music flows as from a lyre : 
 
 At each sweep of the violin, 
 
 He seems to conjure the might-have-been. 
 
 Now he recounts with quiet joy 
 His merry life as a farmer-boy. 
 He trolls the song as if entranced 
 While in his eyes queer sparklets danced: 
 Then he mused on life and the world to be ; 
 He thought of love and the good true past; 
 He dreamed of isles in the wondrous sea; 
 And his words in variant song were cast: 
 "The elk were myriad, deer like sheep, 
 That afternoon we climbed the trail 
 We passed the ridges and canyons deep, 
 And heard the whir of a thousand quail. 
 
 "And I pitched my tent, and cleared my spring; 
 And my fire sent incense to the skies. 
 The song-sparrow came to my bough to sing } 
 An Eden ! you say. It was Paradise. 
 
 "The figs were ripe, the red roses double ; 
 
 The fields were a carpet of golden stubble ; 
 
 The white geese drowsed in the sedgy pool; 
 
 The sleek fat kine in a wavy line 
 
 Down the long path sniffed the breezes cool. 
 
 Over the green hills and far away 
 
 The sky was a-blaze with the last of day; 
 
 The oak trees trailed in the sweet south wind; 
 
 The ricks with odorous hay were lined. 
 
 I sat and mused for a dreamy hour
 
 76 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Where the porch was green with the passion-flower, 
 And gazed where far-off towers glow 
 Like minarets of eternal snow." 
 
 His song was touched with many a rune, 
 And lit with many an airy dream; 
 And I gently said : "Kind friend, a boon ; 
 Tell me what means this cherished theme !" 
 
 His eye flashed fire, his gaze was stern, 
 His pale cheek flushed, his white hand shook, 
 And with words that ne er lighted a scroll or Book, 
 His tale began to breathe and burn: 
 
 "Ah me! It seems so long ago; 
 So long it surely was Eden-time : 
 Again I hear the rain-wind blow, 
 And wild geese chant September rhyme. 
 
 "Oh land of the dream-gray autumn clime, 
 
 Field of the lark and the honey-bee, 
 
 Hills of the sun, the happy prime! 
 
 Ever, forever, I turn to thee ! 
 
 Oh shadowy land of the rock-bound hill, 
 
 Where the dear first-hearts wait my coming again 
 
 Oh heart of my heart, be silent, be still ; 
 
 And know that a first love never is vain ! 
 
 "Yes, tell all your late loves over and o er 
 And set them to story and sing them sublime 
 And smile as you picture them more and more; 
 But a first love, bury it deep with time ! 
 
 "No mortal ever a single word 
 Of this my first young love has heard; 
 And what is this that is now averred? 
 This phantom that so your heart has strirred ! 
 
 "Never the grave with its secret true, 
 Would open to tell this secret to you ; 
 And now you say, in a sunny vale,
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 77 
 
 So far the deer scarce leads with his trail, 
 You say that you found her, an elf by the stream, 
 You say that fulfillment awaits my old dream?" 
 
 I smiled as I saw his new hope leap, 
 
 And the flush of youth to his countenance creep. 
 
 Soft came the starlight over the hills, 
 
 Those silent hills green-rounded and seamed, 
 
 And shapen and moulded and scarred and reamed 
 
 By the rains and the springs and the reedy rills, 
 
 That have sung in the infinite years of the past; 
 
 Out of the silent and fathomless vast, 
 
 From the Pleiades untouched zone it fell. 
 
 It lightened the gloom of the darkening earth, 
 
 Till the oaken leaves sang a sweet new birth 
 
 It entered and lightened the dark well 
 
 Of my own rough heart ; and cast its spell 
 
 Like a magic web o er the player s soul, 
 
 And he grew warm and human and whole ; 
 
 And I listened there in God s light dim, 
 
 As the gentle revealment came to him : 
 
 "Come, give us your song," the message said. 
 Twas a voice of life, not of the dead, 
 And to him who moaned of the yesterday, 
 Which was lost, as he thought, forever and aye, 
 It came like a Word from a pilgrim s heaven, 
 Leavening his life with a rich new leaven. 
 
 "Go," it s:aid, "when the grapes are red 
 
 When the barley is sheaved, and clouds overhead 
 
 Scurry like gossamers over the blue, 
 
 When the heart is light then love is true. 
 
 "For the people are sorrowful, need your song; 
 They are waiting for you and have waited long." 
 And so it happened this keeper of sheep 
 Came from the shades of his valley deep 
 Climbed the hill a-slope to the vernal south,
 
 78 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Up where the fields are a-silver with oats, 
 Where the wild doves burnish their olive coats, 
 And down where the filaree stanches the drouth 
 A-threat when November winds are cold : 
 He threaded the sage and chaparral wold; 
 He cast to the winds his sorrowings old. 
 
 For here in the shade of the trellised grape, 
 
 Waits many a don in his silver cape 
 
 Waits many a donna to tinkle the bells 
 
 Soon as the wild dance-music swells : 
 
 "Lo here," said one, "comes the wandering bard 
 
 He brings us a song, and he plays at a word." 
 
 "Then strike (Oh joy!) on the living string: 
 Set all the tense nerves a-thrill and a-wing! 
 The time is past for the touch of grief; 
 Let the lilting note give the heart relief; 
 Conjure, O stranger, the melody, 
 Sweet as the air, wild as the sea!" 
 
 High on the porch the lantern swung: 
 
 Above the gate where the rose-tree hung 
 
 Echoed and clanged the candolin : 
 
 Rattled and cracked the pistol-shot 
 
 And the drum and the cymbal were not forgot, 
 
 And many a dancer entered in, 
 
 A celebrant of that yearly feast, 
 
 Where the Great-Dame s cousins, the greatest and least 
 
 Joined in the rolicsome afternoon, 
 
 Light as fays in the bright white moon. 
 
 With laughing old wrinkles his face was seamed 
 As he touched the note in a sweet refrain: 
 This shepherd once more was himself again. 
 His cheeks were flushed, his keen eyes beamed. 
 With a lightness born of his youth they gleamed. 
 He sounded the high call strain on strain, 
 And every nerve was alive in his brain. 
 Like a river the old tunes skurried and streamed
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 79 
 
 Rich in sheep and cattle was she; 
 And golden wheat and the honey bee. 
 The fig and the olive gave her shade, 
 And the trailing grape rare comfort made. 
 The rich filaree in her meadows grew 
 And her lilies gleamed in the whitest hue. 
 Twas here they came a love to pay 
 Like a tribute for some ancestral shrine, 
 With firstling and fruit and blossomy spray, 
 To the great fore-foundress of the line. 
 
 There are the walls of sun-dried brick 
 
 Low-spreading walls with roof antique, 
 
 With arches Castilian and covered thick 
 
 With the sweeping green of the murmuring vine ; 
 
 There the locust is white in the clear sunshine, 
 
 There, the shade of the oak where the children played 
 
 And the cool wide porch for the promenade, 
 
 And the rich Autumnal birthday feast, 
 
 Where the kith and kin from the great to the least 
 
 Came in the calm of the gentle September 
 
 When the clouds were gray like the graying ember. 
 
 Under the trellis the feast was laid ; 
 
 And many the smile on the happy face played 
 
 That soft Indian summery afternoon ; 
 
 There was the purple-rich grape and prune; 
 
 The roasted hare and the winged brood, 
 
 Drenched with the amber olive flood. 
 
 The fattest fatling from the white clover 
 
 Turned in the barbecue over and over ; 
 
 Tortillas, tamales, the hot enchilade, 
 
 With nectars as juicy as if for a god: 
 
 The rich raviola, the chili con earn ; 
 
 The tuna full-ripe from the wild cactus-thorn. 
 
 There were nuts the fleecy gray squirrel hoards 
 
 Loaded the polished redwood boards. 
 
 And steaming cups with yellow cream, 
 
 With cress from the winding meadow stream 
 
 Hark!! The low strains of the violin 
 
 Signal anew the dance to begin !
 
 80 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Red-lipped Senoritas they swing in a whirl 
 
 And the silks and sashes furl after furl 
 
 Rustle and curl in the dreamy maze 
 
 And oddly sweet in magical ways 
 
 The smooth low-murmuring music plays 
 
 And lover and maid are carried quite 
 
 To the shadowy valley of delight. 
 
 The flashing eye-gleam quick returns, 
 
 And the dancer with strange new ardor burns : 
 
 And then the minstrel touches a string 
 
 That beckons unto the mystic ring 
 
 Of that mysterious spirit-strain 
 
 Which the bold Sir Bedivere heard when 
 
 Beloved King Arthur sailed afar 
 
 Into the reddening sunrise bar. 
 
 The dance was stilled and yet the bard 
 
 Held to the magic of that chord. 
 
 The dancers mused and stood at gaze 
 
 Awed with the strange seraphic blaze 
 
 Of that wild-shrilling bardic strain 
 
 Which faded, wavered and echoed again 
 
 To that mild melody which croons 
 
 To lovers under September moons. 
 
 Then Juanna and Juan jigged the weird rigadoon 
 
 To the beat of a queer and untamable tune; 
 
 And Jose and Julie danced over and o er 
 
 The fandango wild till the hard oaken floor 
 
 Rattled and hummed to dervish time 
 
 That told of love and a passion prime. 
 
 Then came the light chords again like a boon 
 
 And all night long, to the low sweet tune. 
 
 Quivered the floor to rhythmic feet; 
 
 But when Dawn came on her golden street 
 
 Sowing her orient rubies of light, 
 
 Nothing was there heard save the swallow s flight 
 
 The music divine was an echo lost, 
 
 And one more feast was a shattered ghost. 
 
 Thus many a year the shepherd played 
 At the Great-Dame s dance and serenade.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 81 
 
 How the maidens sighed when high the note 
 Ran like a strain from the field-lark s throat ! 
 Or when at the Feast he gentlier sung 
 Of time and joyous love among 
 The happy fields of prairie corn 
 When life to him was a merry morn ! 
 
 The months and the years now glided by, 
 
 And over the hills where the oats grow high, 
 
 Trailed the sheep and the minstrel old 
 
 Brought them at evening to the fold. 
 
 Again at morn he wandered forth, 
 
 And led his charge to the high wild north, 
 
 Or back again to the lily-south 
 
 Where filaree rich lined the streamlet s mouth. 
 
 And when he sat by the fire and played 
 
 The strings echoed lightly the serenade: 
 
 And stately he threw off the country dance, 
 
 Or the measure stepped in a Southern manse: 
 
 Or he rested at noon and thrummed at ease 
 
 The old-remembered melodies: 
 
 Or over the strings the swift bow flies 
 
 In a song for honor that never dies. 
 
 No more for him the palsied hand ! 
 That harsh ill-omen of failing years : 
 No more the sorrowing night of. tears ! 
 For every demon of ill he banned. 
 
 He was of them of whom it is said: 
 
 "Today the great joy enters his heart; 
 
 Of smiling fields he becomes a part, 
 
 And a new life is his in the old one s stead." 
 
 The gray dove homed in his sugar-corn, 
 
 The gentle quail crowed in his rose-tree at morn; 
 
 He learned the way of the brooklet trout, 
 
 And where the lark brings her nestlings out: 
 
 The linnet built on his window-sill, 
 
 And the road-runner crooned on his oaty hill: 
 
 He knew the trails the shy rabbit made :
 
 82 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Where the fawn lay hid in the chaparral shade. 
 The cricket sang on his hearth at eve: 
 He learned to dream and hope and believe, 
 Each day was a boon to his still soul sent; 
 For deep in his heart was divine content: 
 There was no room for the harsh and the drear, 
 For the gentle spirit of Christ was here. 
 
 And so in ecstasy new he made 
 
 A paean of gladness fresh and clear 
 
 A song of living, high with cheer; 
 
 And deep and strong he sang and played : 
 
 "Joy! Joy! Infinite joy! 
 Wild as the fire in the heart of a boy; 
 Clean as the soul of the laughing breeze; 
 Pure as the heart of the dryad trees! 
 
 "The sky is mine, the earth is mine, 
 The air and the sea and all that is; 
 And when I shall pass I shall walk divine 
 In ways more starry fair than this ! 
 
 "I say I have lived in a joyous world; 
 Where every loving dream comes true; 
 With comfort and plenty around me curled; 
 Where every moment is fresh and new. 
 
 "It s great! this life on the hills of Time, 
 To follow the gleam and still endure, 
 To strive in joy for the High Sublime, 
 And know that the way of love is sure." 
 
 So year by year at the autumn feast 
 The joy and the friendly love increased; 
 And all because of the music of him 
 Who was touched by the lyric seraphim! 
 
 All the winter long, on northern hills, 
 The flock was fed nigh upland rillis, 
 And when at night the winter wind 
 Shrilled by the cabin eaves and whined
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 83 
 
 Around the flues, safe by the fire 
 The bard was housed, while ever nigher 
 The storm-wind roared. In spring the grass 
 Still blossomed rich in the northern pass; 
 And still the sheep on upland lawns 
 All summer through fed with the fawns, 
 That sleek in quiet shelters born, 
 Heard all unscared the shepherd s horn. 
 
 But when the time for the birthday feast 
 
 Came and the summer bay-winds ceased, 
 
 Leaving for weeks in quiet air 
 
 The autumn haze, and the hill-top bare 
 
 Wore like a veil September mist, 
 
 A longing he could not resist 
 
 Stole to the vagrant shepherd s heart. 
 
 Soon was he ready to depart; 
 
 And long ere the sun had raised his head 
 
 The swift foot took the canyon bed. 
 
 It was high noon before there gleamed 
 
 Those low gray walls of which he dreamed. 
 
 Swift beat his heart, his forehead burned. 
 
 He pictured how, a friend returned, 
 
 The kindly folk would welcome him; 
 
 But far on the hills the skies grew dim, 
 
 And vague misgivings filled his brain; 
 
 For winding up the distant grade, 
 
 He saw a long procession fade. 
 
 The high black hearse with feathery plume 
 
 Sank o er the hill in silent gloom. 
 
 With hurried steps and eye a-gaze, 
 
 He rushed along in sore amaze 
 
 To where he played the birthday song. 
 
 About the walls he wandered long; 
 
 Heard from strange lips the gentle tale, 
 
 (Sad as November s stormy wail) 
 
 How the sweet rest had glided in 
 
 To the tired eye, and all the din 
 
 And sorrow and joy of those long years,
 
 84 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Ninety and more, and all the fears, 
 
 Forgotten, sped to the nevermore ; 
 
 Till heavy grief upon him bore. 
 
 But the dread spell came not for long 
 
 For straight his sorrow turned unto song. 
 
 Soft o er the trees the music rang; 
 
 Yet loving was the lay he sang: 
 
 "Bring roses and wreaths of verdant balm, 
 That grow in deep canyons soothed with calm ; 
 And lay them to the memory 
 Of her who fares unto the Isles of Palm! 
 
 "Bear oak-leaves lade with honey-dew, 
 
 And fragrances from quiet rue ; 
 
 Such essences as tenderly 
 
 Drift from those shadowy Isles afar and new ! 
 
 "Weave magic strands of elfin dream, 
 
 Such as are born on a summery stream 
 
 To be her guide unto that sea 
 
 Where sweet hopes flash in many a starry gleam ! 
 
 "Burn incense thick and lethe-bearing 
 With lily-perfume rich and spirit-snaring, 
 To give her that serenity 
 Immortals wear in their divine way-faring! 
 
 "Sing lyrics with the honeyed tongue 
 Such as are murmured forest isles among ! 
 So shall she pass in ecstasy 
 So shall she go to be forever young!" 
 
 Back o er the trail to the high divide 
 Where the clouds like bannery whirlwinds ride, 
 The minstrel toiled to his sheltered fold, 
 Haunted by dreams as the prophet old, 
 Sang to the sky till the Great Night fell, 
 He had done his part and all was well !
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 85 
 
 Some say the shepherd still plays and sings 
 
 And keeps his lonely vigil true, 
 
 That his ancient music still leaps and wings 
 
 At evening dusk and morning dew, 
 
 That proudly he stands by the open wold, 
 
 A faithful keeper, white and old. 
 
 And others listening at set of the sun 
 Still hear the music when folding is done 
 But aver it the moan of the turtle-dove, 
 A gentle song of mating love. 
 And others hear in the quail s wild notes, 
 Or the silvery rustle of blowing oats, 
 Or the sharp high pipe of the lark-refrain, 
 The melting notes of his lyric strain. 
 
 And when I hark to the sweet south wind, 
 As it sings at my eaves, and rain is kind, 
 I too hear its melody drifting in, 
 The haunting air of his violin. 
 
 CADDIE KENT. 
 
 You name her, and my mind runs back 
 Into a happy childhood dream : 
 An old south porch, and almond trees, 
 Tall sycamore beside a stream. 
 
 You name her, and her fair morn moves 
 Under that ancient sycamore 
 And dark-lit eyes, and ebon-hair 
 Gleam in the misty Nevermore. 
 
 Ah, strew your leaves , old sycamore 
 By murky tule-lake and stream! 
 And blue-bells shroud in perfume dust 
 All that is left of that old dream; 
 
 For mind cannot forever hold 
 
 The sweet dim pictures of the past ; 
 
 And the heart would burst, and the brain would 
 
 burn, 
 Could we not turn from them at last !
 
 86 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 THE WILD HONKER. 
 
 Well I remember how one starry morn 
 
 Fair by the reedy lake 
 
 Hid in the brake 
 
 I heard the wild grey honker blow his merry horn, 
 
 Circling in many a ring above the emerald field 
 
 And, all concealed, 
 
 I saw him glide down to the growing grain, 
 
 And pipe his music to his shining host, 
 
 That filled contented all the wheaten coast 
 
 Till endless seemed the whirling feathery train 
 
 Then my wild pulse beat in an eager joy, 
 
 Beat the fierce music of a fiery boy. 
 
 REINCARNATION. 
 
 O, when I come again may it be spring ! 
 That I may walk again through poppy bloom. 
 And catch the glint of sunlight brightening 
 The sylph-like heron s spotless lily-plume; 
 
 That I may watch the sunset paint the hills 
 
 With purple, catch the odor from the lawn 
 
 Laden with clover-hay; or hear the rills 
 
 That play among the meadow-grass ; or, at the dawn, 
 
 Walk knee-deep through the flowering April oats ; 
 Or linger silent by the leafy groves, 
 Watching the gros-beaks in their shiny coats 
 Murmur in fairy bowers their elfin loves. 
 
 And when I come again I want to see, 
 (Wreathed, as it once was wont, in witching smiles) 
 Your matchless face, the book of minstrelsy 
 (Fair magic) in your hand; and down the aisles 
 
 Of tule-grass, to wander far away 
 In timeless joy, to where the crickets hum 
 Their sweet high music to declining day. 
 Ah ! let it be in spring-time when I come !
 
 COMMENT ON THE BLAND POEMS. 
 
 (Extracts from Letters and Reviews.) 
 
 In Flight Across Oregon, 
 
 May 18, 1921. 
 
 I have read Henry Meade Eland s poem on Yos:emite 
 with keen interest. It contains some lines that have a 
 true beauty; other lines that are marches of mystic 
 music. It is the most elaborate poem ever written upon 
 the marvelous valley. EDWIN MARKHAM. 
 
 I have reread with pleasure your lines on "Sierran Pan." 
 You have remembered what so many people forget, that Pan 
 only can be seen out of doors in a real landscape. The concrete 
 is of the essence of poetry. Henry van Dyke. 
 
 Your poetry is full of the spirit of Nature. 
 
 William Butler Yeats. 
 
 It ("Love s Purpose") is not only poetry, it is truth. 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
 And when the witchery of language has been considered 
 the final test of the poet is to be found in a strong-winged 
 imagination. The San Jose Times. 
 
 Henry Meade Bland, joints Joaquin Miller, the one, the 
 bard of the Sierras, the other, the poet of Mount Hamilton. 
 Gilbert Weigle in the Examiner. 
 
 The poet is a Californian. As such he paints a vivid picture 
 of his State, from the snow banners of Sierra, past old ranchos, 
 down through the meadows and orchards to the sands of the 
 Pacific. The St Louis Republic. 
 
 Many of the poems will appeal powerfully to those who are 
 fond of nature. San Francisco Chronicle.
 
 SIERRAN PAN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Professor Bland has the singing spirit, and often paints a 
 word-picture of wistful beauty. Clarence Urmy. 
 
 Pleasing, quieting and melodious. Current Literature. 
 
 The fates have been kind in mapping out a life for this odd 
 genius, that has brought him into touch with humanity, growing 
 humanity, for besides Poet and Bluebird Philosopher he is a 
 Teacher. 
 
 Agnes Johnson Mechfessel in "The Overland Monthly." 
 
 The poem ("In Yosemite") contains lines and passages 
 possessing the true poetic glamor. Edwin Markham. 
 
 There is music in these verses and withal a touch of senti 
 ment that causes them to linger with the reader and keep ring 
 ing in his ears long after he has closed the book. 
 
 Herbert Bashford in Mercury Herald. 
 
 In his poetry he finds his greatest delight. And it is there 
 that former pupils like to catch fresh glimpses of the character 
 they so love and revere. 
 
 Myrtle B. Akin in. "The Overland Monthly." 
 
 This poem ("The Wind Among the Eaves") has art in every 
 line. Such a poem is very rare. John Vance Cheney.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 After the Earthquake 67 
 
 A Ballad of Peace 48 
 
 After Reading "The Iron Heel" 33 
 
 After Reading Edwin Markham s Hoe-Poem 26 
 
 Among the Fields 64 
 
 Annie Embee 37 
 
 A Remembrance 37 
 
 At Montalvo 49 
 
 Autumn Reverie 67 
 
 Birds 64 
 
 Blue-Bell, The l 19 
 
 By the Sacramento 30 
 
 Caddie Kent 85 
 
 Canim 33 
 
 Christmas Memory, A 21 
 
 Columbus 42 
 
 Condor, The 15 
 
 Contra Costa 50 
 
 Cousin George s Philosophy 27 
 
 Day on Summer Seas, A 55-56 
 
 Death of Blanche, The 47 
 
 Divine in Nature, The 9 
 
 Divine Rh^hm 47 
 
 Elemental Beauty 31 
 
 Elm Blossoms . 26 
 
 Fate of the Titanic, The 57 
 
 For a Public School Blackboard 44 
 
 From Caterpillar to Chrysalis 62 
 
 From the Spanish 39 
 
 Fulfillment 60 
 
 Garden of Memory, The 34 
 
 Gift, The 39 
 
 Graduation 44 
 
 Hermod s Ride on Slepnir 46 
 
 Hills of Ix)ng Ago, The 63
 
 CONTENTS Continued 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Hope 35 
 
 Hunting Song 62 
 
 In a Sierra Forest 27 
 
 In Camp at Tahoe 30 
 
 Independence 43 
 
 Inspiration 60 
 
 Inspiration s Gift 41 
 
 In War Time 35 
 
 In Yosemite 10 
 
 Jolly Good Friendship, A 32 
 
 June 20 
 
 Keeper of the Sheep, The 71-85 
 
 Kindness 41 
 
 Life 66 
 
 Lincoln 41 
 
 Linnet, The 24 
 
 Living 40 
 
 Loss 52 
 
 Love 58 
 
 Love s Purpose 19 
 
 Lupines on Mt. Hamilton 39 
 
 Man of the Trail, The 17 
 
 Meadow-Lark, The 19 
 
 Memory 42 
 
 Mission San Antonio 59 
 
 Morning 47 
 
 Mother 25 
 
 Night on the Mesa 31 
 
 Night on the Sacramento 70 
 
 Nirvana 29 
 
 North Wind, The 18 
 
 Old Adobe Building, An 59 
 
 On Berkeley Hills 52 
 
 On the Life-Trail 61 
 
 Poppy, The 18 
 
 Quest for the Seven Cities, The 54 
 
 Rain Prayer 65
 
 CONTENTS Continued 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Reconciliation 61 
 
 Reincarnation 86 
 
 Resurgam 28 
 
 Sailing Together 53 
 
 San Diego-by-the-Sea 50 
 
 September 65 
 
 Shakespeare 28 
 
 Sierra Morning, A 23 
 
 Sierran Pan 9 
 
 Sir Henry Hudson 51 
 
 Song of the Autumn 66 
 
 Song of Joy, A 20 
 
 Song of September, A 68-69 
 
 Song of the Olden Time 24 
 
 Sonnet, The 29 
 
 Steadfast 43 
 
 Sunrise Over the Sierras 25 
 
 Tavern, The 60 
 
 Thanksgiving 49 
 
 Thoughts 40 
 
 To Dorothea J 29 
 
 To My Students 43 
 
 To the Fighter 46 
 
 To the Merced River 23 
 
 To the White Honker Goose 63 
 
 Truce, The 45 
 
 Two Invocations 38 
 
 Unanswerable, The 58 
 
 Unto the Hills 26 
 
 Voices, The 40 
 
 Waiting at Twilight 39 
 
 White Heron, The 70 
 
 Who? 30 
 
 Wild Honker, The 86 
 
 Wind Among the Eaves, The 16 
 
 Wind Blows Eastward, The 36 
 
 Work Completed, 1914 27
 
 
 PS 
 
 3503 
 B6ls 
 
 THE LIBfc 
 UNIVERSITY OF C 
 
 LOS ANGELLo