The Snowflake, and Other Poems

The golden orange bends the lithe branch low,
The sunflowers throng the by-ways everywhere,
Palms wave, birds sing. The earth lies free of care,
Basking in skies one golden, cloudless glow.

Then come the rains, and in their cortege bring
Streams to the canyons, and to ranch and glen
Wild flowers and orange blossoms, wherein rides
The bee on golden zephyrs. Swiftly then,
Like wind-blown fire, up the Sierra sides
A blaze of poppies runs, and it is Spring.

A WINTER DAY.

In the Sierras.

O’er the Sierras scarce the moon yestre’en
Was risen to flood each sombre peak with light,
Ere came a cloud host through the gusty night,
Storming the crags. Sheer canyon walls between
They swept, and hid bare ledge and living green.
Hoarse thunder pealed from unseen height to height,
As though the vast hills boasted of their might,
Though Chaos’ self upon them seemed to lean.

Dawn drew aside night’s veil of mist, and came
Across the hills. The clouds retired, and lo!
On every wind-swept crag, as Day looked forth,
Bright in the southern sunshine gleamed the snow,
A vision of the unforgotten North
’Twixt golden skies and poppy fields aflame.

In the Valley.

Snow on the hills, but in the valley, flowers,
Poppies aflame and orange blooms, whose scent
With the faint odor of the snow is blent.
Snow on the peaks, but in the canyons, showers,
And torrents drinking strength from stormy hours.
The geese wheel seaward through the clouds half spent,
Fleeing the snow and screaming discontent,
But in the vale birds trill in blossomy bowers.

Summer is in the vale, though in the heights
The bandit Winter lurks to seize his prey.
Still springs the grain, vines grow and fruit delights
Sun and soft winds through many a golden day
In many an Eden valley, nestling warm
Below the stern Sierras, wrapped in storm.

THE POOL OF SANT’ OLINE.

Sierra Madre, Cal.

Ere yet the Spanish cavalier
For this new world set sail,
Ere yet the padres came anear
San Gabriel’s sunny vale,
Ere yet the thirst for gold drew men
Across the western hills,
I rippled down this rocky glen,
The happiest of rills.

The shadows of the spreading oak
Oft lay upon my breast;
Oft through the brown madronas broke
The bear upon his quest.
Past starry yuccas, to my brink,
At many a crimson dawn,
The mountain lion came to drink,
And oft a timid fawn.

The golden moments came and went
Of many a sunny year,
And still I rippled on, content
And solitary here.
At times a weary miner came
And quaffed my cooling stream,
At times I saw the camp-fire flame
Of hardy hunters gleam.

Though oft I paused to hear some bird
Trill in the leaves above,
A maid I never saw nor heard,
Nor knew the name of love.
Oh, there was never rivulet
So merry in a glen;
But now I never can forget,
Nor merry be again.

She came, in thoughtless, girlish mood,
The dizzy trail along.
Upon my ferny marge she stood
And listened to my song.
I saw her, and I leapt for glee
In many a lucent wave,
And when she stooped to drink from me,
My very heart I gave.

She passed, and now no more I sing
Among the granite hills;
Instead, my ceaseless murmuring
The sombre canyon fills.
Oh! ye to whom that maid divine
Hath also heartless been,
Come join your mournful plaint with mine,
The pool of Sant’ Oline.

WINTER IN THE SOUTH.

At home the blossoms are asleep
Beside the frost-bound rills;
At home the snow is drifting deep
Upon the windy hills;
At home the ice king mocks the sun,
The woods are drear and bare,
And of the birds there is not one
Left singing anywhere.

But here the fields are green with grain,
The mesas bright with flowers.
The birds repeat each dulcet strain
They learned in Eden’s bowers.
’Midst ripening fruit, the orange trees
Have mingled odorous blooms,
And here and there the eager bees
Hum through the golden glooms.

The swart Sierras, crowned with snow,
Stand knee deep in the green,
Like patriarchs smiling as they go
Blithe groups of youth between.
Behind them is the burning sand
Of the Mojave [A] waste;
Before, the warm Pacific strand,
By golden seas embraced.

When in the palm tree’s shade I rest
Through a many a perfect day,
My heart would fain forget life’s quest,
And live in dreams alway;
But when upon the snow-clad hills
Mine eyes again look forth,
I wake. Thy spell my bosom thrills,
Stern homeland in the north!

Give me the seasons of the year,
The bursting of the leaf,
The northern summer brief but dear,
And autumn’s golden sheaf.
Give me the wintry moon’s pale gleam,
With snow and storm at strife.
The south is a bewitching dream,
But in the north is life.

THE KINDERGARTEN.

O blossoming lives that to the fruits
Now ripened for the gathering in,
Speak of old days, ere life’s pursuits
Touched the new soul with taint of sin,

We who now watch you at your game,
We, weary of the toil and strife,
Must envy you your scorn of fame,
Your eager, loving trust in life.

Perchance, the babe that, thoughtless, piles
His blocks unsteadily in air,
May yet a minster build, whose aisles
Shall echo to a nation’s prayer.

Perchance, the child that scarce can tell
The letters on his cubes of wood,
May yet with a poetic spell
Charm and uplift the multitude.

They question not, they only live
To pluck the blossoms of each hour.
Ambition frets them not, they give
No thought to pomp or place or power.

We too have toys, and we pursue
Our trivial aims; we rage and sigh
Because our blocks are built askew,
And our best hopes in ruins lie.

Yet over us, as over these,
A teacher watches, true and kind,
Striving to guide our fantasies,
And patient with the groping mind.

From flower of wisdom unto flower
He leads us, as these babes are led,
Till chimes, at last, the closing hour,
The prizes won, the lessons said.

And happy he who in this school
Of life, that fits the soul for death,
Has learned to serve as well as rule,
And speak for truth with every breath.

THE POET.

The budding flower that wakes at dewy morn
Attains perfection through the sun-swept day,
And poets, to life’s highest mission born,
By slow unfolding reach the perfect lay.

And like the harp, attuned to every breeze,
That in the open casement sighs or sings,
The poet soul is void of melodies
Till unseen spirit fingers sweep the strings.

Life, the magician, with his subtle powers,
Death, the dark helmsman over seas unknown,
Nature, all-mother, and the teaching hours
Through him their grand, mysterious chants intone.

And oft his numbers falter, and his song
In discord breaks, ere he can hymn again
The anthems of the wondrous spirit throng,
And voice strange thoughts beyond our mortal ken.

And oft the world and the world’s sins immesh
His soul, which still the pitying spirits calm;
And in the warfare between soul and flesh
His heart oft rises to the noblest psalm.

But should he cease to wage the upward strife,
Or thrall himself a slave to evil’s power,
Too proud the Muse to bless a craven life,
Too pure, a sinful heart with song to dower.

For the true poet, throwing down his gage
To fate, fights upwards far beyond life’s mist,
And with the broadened vision of the sage
Beholds all earth by hope’s warm sungleams kissed.

He learns that all who would be truly great
Mix with the battling world, nor shirk their part,
But take such trials as are given by Fate
And set them to sweet music by their art.

He only is a poet who can find
In sorrow, happiness, in darkness, light,
Love everywhere, and lead his fellow kind
By flowery paths towards life’s sunny height.

GOLD TRESSES.

My love is now a woman grown.
About her shoulders fall no more
Her locks, in beauty all their own.
Their days of liberty are o’er.

No longer may, with soft caress,
The zephyr’s unseen hand uplift
Each net-like, golden-threaded tress
To catch the sunlight’s moted drift.

I know each tress, and have a name
Whereby my memory holds it dear,
From that which is her forehead’s frame
To that which hides her shelly ear.

And one there is I loved to touch,
On which my heart first suffered wreck,
That sometimes fell aside too much
And showed the ivory of her neck.

And though ’tis bound upon her head
And all its beauty hid from me,
Still other charms I see instead,
And still am in captivity.

I see the grace of neck and ear
Unveiled, that erst beneath the tress
But peeped, as pearly sea shells peer
Through ocean’s weedy wilderness.

Ye captive tresses that disdained
My love, and wantoned in the wind,
I know your grief, for I was chained
Her slave ere ye were thus confined.

She hath but gloried in our love,
And laughs to find us strain our gyves.
Come, let us slaves unite and prove
That power to break her bond survives.

Aid me with love her heart to chain,
And soon, when she and I are wed,
My hands shall set ye free again
To wanton sweetly round her head.

EN ROUTE.

By town and hamlet, field and wood,
Past glimpses of empurpled hills,
O’er many a broad, sun-smitten flood
And many a myriad tinkling rills,
The train swings on and brings us twain
Each minute nearer by a mile,
While I to chafe at time am fain,
Which holds me sundered from thy smile.

I see among the emerald trees
Embowered, the village church spires gleam;
I see white homestead front the breeze,
And of our own sweet home I dream;
While still the fleet train brings us twain
Each minute nearer by a mile,
And fewer moments yet remain
To hold me sundered from thy smile.

The wheat fields shimmer in the sun,
Sleek cattle in the meadows browse,
Nor lift their heads, as past we run,
The lithe-limbed steeds and patient cows.
And still the fleet train brings us twain
Each minute nearer by a mile,
Till scarce a moment doth remain
To hold me sundered from thy smile.

Onward we sweep, yet all our speed
Leaves not pursuing night behind;
Stars sparkle in the sky’s broad mead,
And homeward plods the weary hind;
And still the fleet train brings us twain
Each minute nearer by a mile,
Until my heart is home again
And I am basking in thy smile.

AT DAWN.

At dawn of day a shaft of light
Pierces the sable breast of night,
Which, dropping many a sable plume,
Flits far into the nether gloom,
All silently.

At dawn of day the sun’s first beam
Dispels the mist that hides the stream,
And scatters from the hill and wood
The clouds that there did sit and brood,
Formless and grey.

And when the night from earth is driven,
And clouds and mist have fled from heaven,
The waking birds take eager flight
Up through the golden rain of light,
With happy song.

Into my life, that knew no day,
A maiden winged a kindly ray,
And, flying wearily and slow,
Far fled the sombre bird of woe
I harbored long.

My heart no longer pined in night,
The mists that hid hope’s stream took flight,
Life’s hills a sunnier aspect took,
And I found many a pleasant nook
Within life’s grove.

And now my thoughts, like birds, arise,
Singing, towards the golden skies,
Afar from earthly doubt and strife,
Through the pure radiance of her life,
On wings of love.