Ina D. Coolbrith: Verses about Time

‘Love is so old, ’ I said, ‘no more
Of him be said or sung’...
But since Love entered at my door-
Love how forever young!

All the long summer, hill and valley wide
Crimson with roses, gold with poppies’ glow;
But when the days draw near to Christmas-tide,
They clothe themselves with lilies as with snow.

Sunshine and melody follow the rain-
Patter the rain-drops merrily!
Spring joy follows the winter pain,
Then, ho! For earth’s green holiday.

Flutter the rovers from over the sea-
Greet them, robin, right heartily!
Nest and twitter in field and tree,
And O! for loves sweet hoiday.

Wait, and the winds of the winter cease:
Up, little heart, beat hopefully!
After the warfare cometh peace-
And O! for a life’s glad holiday.

The sea is a molten pearl,
And pearl the fleckless sky’
The firstling leaves unfurl,
And the air is a fragrant sigh.

A bird’s soft madrigal
In the pear-tree’s blossoming;
High on the church-spire tall
A white dove preens her wing.

The elemental strife
Lost in a peace profound,
In sound of quickened life
That yet is scarcely sound.

One with the starry chime
Earth keeps her rhythmic beat-
Our mother, old as time
With heart still young and sweet.

From the dust of Herrick’s pages
Maytime dances down the ages,
Youth and maiden tell the old
Tale, that never quite is told;
Nodes the primrose by the rill,
Tulip gay, and daffodil,
And from dusk-dewed, scented vale
Flutes the old-world nightingale.

Let the volume open lie-
Day the sweeter made thereby;
With its Maytime in the boughs,
In the lily-leaves adrowse,
In the field-lark’s liquid note,
All earth’s joyance in his throat-
Sing, O Herrick! Maytime lies
In the song’s eternities!

The green leaves grow and grow,
And the birds build in the trees:
Ah, Sweethearts, could I linger, linger,
With soul at ease!

O long, cool vineyard rows!
The path is blind with heat;
With you rest is, and sound of waters,
And shadow sweet.

The dry leaves fall and fall;
The days grow less in the sun:
I falter, fail, and my soul is weary-
The quest unwon!

It may come with the morn!
It may come with the night!
O near, far Hope, I follow, follow,
From dark to light!

It befell me on a day-
Long ago; ah, long ago!
When my life was in its May,
In the May-month of the year.
All the orchards were like snow
With pink-flushes here and there;
And a bird sang building near-
And a bird sang far away,
Where the early twilight lay.

Long ago; ah, long ago!
Youth’s sweet May passed quite away-
May that never more is May.
And I hear the nightingale
Singing far adown the vale
Where the early twilight lies:
Singing sad, and sweet, and strong;
And I wonder if the song
May be heard in Paradise!

So glide the days, dear! Dawn will not delay,
Noontide will come, nor linger in its flight;
And even-time in turn must pass away
Into the darkness of a dreamless night.
Hold fast, Beloved, thy season of delight:
Make merry while the morning gilds the sky,
And dews undried upon the roses lie;
Thy golden morn of May-time, brief as bright.
For labor waits; and cares thou canst not miss;
Grief for thy gladness, and for laughter, tears.
Ah, love! if only love might spare thee this-
Might hold a little farther off the years! -
A little longer bind thy winged feet,
O youth, -most swift in passing, and most sweet!

The wind was very sad among the branches,
The moon had hid its light;
I threw my window open to the darkness,
And looked out on the night,

And thought of all the dear old times together-
Days sweet for her sweet sake-
And all I lost in losing her, till, thinking,
My heart seemed like to break.

And O, I said, if I might have some token-
She is, and yet is mine-
Though but a wind-tossed leaf, my soul would take it,
And bless it, for the sign.

And lo! a little wind sighed through the branches,
The moon shone on the land,
And cool and moist with the night-dew, a leaflet
Fluttered against my Hand!

Unto the earth the Summer comes again:
She has, to quench her thirst, the dews and rain;
She has glad light about her all life’s hour,
And love for gracious dower.

She makes the valleys pleasant for the herds;
Her seeds and berries ripen for the birds,
And cool about their nests she deftly weaves
A screen of tender leaves.

Her soft, delicious breath revives the land;
Her many flowers she feeds with lavish hand;
Clothes the bare hill, and to the rugged place
Gives comeliness and grace.

To all things else she cometh, once a year,
With strong, new life, with beauty and glad cheer-
To all things else: Ah, sometime, it must be
That she will come to me!

‘ All These I Will Give Thee’

World plaudits!
Glamour of the tinsel crowd
In adulation! Fame, the meator Fame,
And Youth, still golden Youth!
The price-a Soul.

Failure! -if it be failure still to hold
The Dream unbroken!
Bent, paupered, old-
The great World turned aside,
Ever unhearing, from that Voice divine.
But still, else lost, the Voice divine his own,
No accent missing,
Still each cord supreme!
Failure! -if it be failure-his to be,
The Soul’s immortal Youth upon his brow,
One with endless rapture of all Sound,
Song of all Song,
The music of the spheres-
God’s Hand upon the Keys!

There’s Pan!
See-through the branches yonder!
Where has he been, I wonder,
The long, long span?
Now, listen: you will hear,
The pipes-the pipes o’ Pan

Why, only yesterday
I saw a Graybeard, there;
A Graybeard, bent and old,
Under the boughs a-cold
And bleak and bare.
Now, what does that mad boy hold,
And wisely scan?
Then, lifting high in the air,
With a leap and a glad hurray,
And a laugh like the song of May,
Toss-far away?
Why ‘tis the Graybeard’s mask!
‘What does it mean? ’ you ask.

Why-Pan!
Just Pan!
Pan, since the world began:
Joy supernal, -
Youth eternal-
PAN!

In winter time one steadfast hope I had:
When rains should cease to fall,
And earth resummoned all
Her blossom-quests, I should again be glad.

And then my heart unlifted still, I said,
“Too pallid and too chill
These skies; wait yet until
The summer’s serene blue smiles overhead.”

Its red the rose surrenders to the leaves;
The orchard branches yield
Their fruit, and far a-field
The reapers sing amid their gathered sheaves.

The circle of the year is all complete:
And in her wintry hour,
In fruitage or in flower,
I know the world is very fair and sweet.

Yet, O, not here the peace I long for dwells:
But past the restful night
Of death, within the light
Of God, amid unfading asphodels.

Fairer than any flower
Of summer’s hour,
Sweeter than any love-
Ay, sweet in truth! -
Of her what shall be said?
Hope, that is dead!
Fair Hope, that garlanded,
Fair Hope that led and fed
The dreams of youth.

What song is sweet enough
To sing of her?
What murmur of the dove,
What cooing note thereof,
To breath the memories
That cling to her?
Hope, brave and strong!
Hope sweeter than all song,
What song is sweet enough
To sing of her!

How weary are the ways
Unto our feet!
O, lagging length of days
That once were fleet!
O, barren of all grace,
Life, that she made so sweet!

Hidden from moon and star,
She that was fairer far
To look upon!
Not where the roses are,
But where slow waters sweep
To the great deep;
Where only shadows wan,
And rain may fall thereon,
But never the warm sun.

It’s O my heart, my heart,
To be out in the sun and sing-
To sing and shout in the fields about,
In the balm and the blossoming!

Sing loud, O bird in the tree;
O bird, sing loud in the sky,
And honey-bees, blacken the clover-beds—
There are none of you glad as I.

The leaves laugh low in the wind,
Laugh low, with the wind at play;
And the odorous call of the flowers all
Entices my soul away.

For O but the world is fair, is fair-
And O but the world is sweet!
I will out in the gold of the blossoming mould
And sit at the Master’s feet.

And th’ love my heart would speak
I will fold in the lily’s rim,
That the lips of the blossom, more pure and meek,
May offer it up to Him.

Then sing in the hedgerow green, O Thrush,
O Sky lark, sing in the blue;
Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear,
And my soul shall sing with you!

In winter-time one steadfast hope I had:
When rains should cease to fall,
And earth re-summon all
Her blossom-guests, I should again be glad.

And then, my heart unlifted still, I said,
Too pallid and too chill
These skies, wait yet until
The summer’s serene blue smiles overhead.

Its red and rose surrenders to the leaves;
The orchard branches yield
Their fruit, and far afield
The reapers sing amid their gathered sheaves.

The circle of the year is all complete;
And in its wintery hour,
In fruitage or in flower,
I know the world is very fair and sweet.

I know that not from land, or sky, or sea,
The restless spirit takes
Its somber hues, and makes
A discord of God’s golden harmony.

Within, some false note jars the perfect strain
The great Musician meant. . . .
O bird of lost content,
Come back, and build, and brood, and sing again

The summer rose is dead;
The sad leaves, withered,
Strew ankle-deep the pathways to our tread:
Dry grasses mat the plain,
And drifts of blossom slain;
And day and night the wind is like a pain.

No nightingale to sing
In green boughs listening,
Through balmy twilight hushes of the spring:
No thrush, no oriole
In music to out-roll
The little golden raptures of his soul.

O royal summer-reign!
When will you come again,
Bringing the happy birds across the main?
O blossoms! when renew
Your pretty garbs, and woo
Your waiting, wild bee lovers back to you?

For lo, my heart is numb;
For lo, my heart is dumb,
Is silent till the birds and the blossoms come!
A flower, that lieth cold
Under the wintry mold,
Waiting the warm spring-breathing to unfold.

O swallow! all too slow
Over the waves you go,
Dipping your light wings in their sparkling flow.
Over the golden sea,
O swallow, flying free,
Fly swiftly with the summer back to me!

Weave me a rhyme to-day:
No pleasant roundelay.
But some vague, restless yearning of the heart
Shaped with but little art
To broken numbers, that shall glow
Most dreamily and slow.
I think no cherry fancy should belong
To this day’s song.

Look how the maple stands.
Waving its bleeding hands.
With such weird gestures; and the petals fall
From the dry roses-pale, nor longer sweet:
And by the garden-wall
The unclasped vines, and all
These sad dead leaves, a-rustle at our feet.

Dear bodies of the flowers,
From which the little fragrant souls are fled,
Beside you, lying dead,
We say, “Another summer shall be ours
When all these naked boughs shall flush and flame
With fresh, young blossoms.” Aye, but not the same!
And that is saddest. By the living bloom,
Who cares for last year’s beauty-in the tomb?

Spring, blossom, and decay.
Ah, poet, sing thy day-
So brief a day, alas! . . . .
Beloved, and shall we pass
Beneath the living grass,
Out from the glad, warm splendor of the sun?
A little dust about some old tree’s root,
With all our voices mute,
And all our singing done?

‘May the Lord love us and not call for us Too Soon’

Unto the little child whose happy heart
With dancing feet keeps merry time and tune,
When death comes, and the life-plan falls apart,
‘Too soon, ’ we cry; ‘Alas, too soon, too soon! ’

To youth, the dreamer, in whose vision lies
Life, one long splendid day of splendid June,
While Love, the great enchantress, veils his eyes,
Too soon the latest summons, all too soon.

Even to the heart grown old with years and care,
Whose song of life is set to saddest rune, -
Youth’s shinning curls, and age’s thin gray hair,
Alike the cry, ‘Too soon the call, too soon! ’

O Death! Thou truest friend of this sad earth,
Drawing our souls as draws the tides, the moon,
When shall we know thee, not as death but birth
To that new life, which may not be to soon?

We count the vacant chairs where used to sit
Dear friends with merry jest, and laugh, and tune,
Called hence, ah! question not the truth of it-
To us but not to them, ‘Too soon, too soon! ’

It must be that from some diviner sphere
Back-looking to earth’s morn and night and noon,
We yet shall say, ‘Our world was fair and dear,
But loving us God might not call too soon.’

* Written for the Bohemian Club.

O foolish wisdom sought in books!
O aimless fret of household tasks!
O chains that bind the hand and mind-
A fuller life my spirit asks.

For there the grand hills, summer-crown’d,
Slope greenly downward to the seas:
One hour of rest upon their breast
Were worth a year of days like these.

Their cool, soft green to ease the pain
Of eyes that ache o’er printed words;
This weary noise—the city’s voice,
Lulled in the sound of bees and birds.

For Eden’s life within me stirs,
And scorns the shackles that I wear.
The man-life grand: pure soul, strong hand,
The limb of steel, the heart of air!

And I could kiss, with longing wild,
Earth’s dear brown bosom, loved so much,
A grass-blade fanned across my hand,
Would thrill me like a lover’s touch.

The trees would talk with me; the flowers
Their hidden meanings each make known—
The olden lore revived once more,
When man’s and nature’s heart were one.

And as the pardoned pair might come
Back to the garden God first framed,
And hear Him call at even-fall,
And answer, “ Here am I, ” unashamed-

So I, from out these toils, wherein
The Eden-faith growns stained and dim,
Would walk, a child, through Nature’s wild,
And hear His voice and answer Him.

Just for a day to put my sorrow by!
Forget that summer dies, that roses die;
And the swift swallow, circling round the eaves,
Leaves us with falling leaves.

Forget the sky shall lose its gold; the sea
Grow white in tempest, and the long nights be
Forlorn of stars, and dreary with the rains
Beating against the panes.

Forget that change is, and the sorrow is;
That souls grow tired, and sweetest memories
In time turn bitter, and the one sure friend
Is death, that makes an end.

Just a day to put aside the years,
Washed clean of wrongs, of sins, of heavy tears;
And dream that life is fair, and love a truth,
And youth is always youth.

That if the swallow goes, ‘tis for a day,
To come again at dawn, with merrier lay,
Learned in the old fair lands, and the rose brings
New splendors with new springs.

That God is near, and Heaven near, and Death
So far the young heart scarcely reckoneth
The time by years and years; as now by days-
And the whole earth is praise.

And faith is as a spotless dove, with wings
Unclogged with doubt, with many questionings
Unansweared; and the heart not yet doth tire
Of its own vain desire.

Just for a day to pull all sad things by,
Forget that dreams are dead, that dreams must die-
Joy is a breath, and hope a star that sets;
Forget, as love forgets!

Night and the hill to me!
Silence no sound that jars;
Above, of stars a sea;
Below, a sea of stars!

Tranced in slumber’s sway,
The city at its feet.
A tang of salty spray
Blends with the odors sweet

From garden-close and wall,
Where the madrona stood,
And tangled chaparral,
In the old solitude.

Here, from the Long Ago,
Rezanov’s sailors sleep;
There, the Presidio;
Beyond, the plumed steep;

The waters, mile on mile,
Foam-fringed with feathery white;
The beaconed fortress isle,
And Yerba Buena’s light.

O hill of Memories!
Thy scroll so closely writ
With song, that bough and breeze
And bird should utter it:

Hill of desire and dream,
Youth’s visions manifold,
That still in beauty gleam
From the sweet days of old!

Ring out thy solemn tone,
O far-off Mission bell!
I keep the tryst alone
With one who loved me well.

A voice I may not hear!
Face that I may not see,
Yet know a Presence near
To watch the hour with me. . .

How stately and serene
The moon moves up the sky!
How silvery between
The shores her footprints lie!

Peace, that no shadow mars!
Night and the hill to me!
Below, a sea of stars!
Above, of stars a sea!

What were this human
World without woman?
Think –just a minute! –
Without one in it –
A Man-Edan only,
Wretchad and lonely.
True, there’s a story
Scarce to her glory
Therewith connected,
But ‘tis suspected
Man, after all,
Was quite ready to fall!
If fault, he condoned it—
And through the years since,
Eva has atoned it.

Woman! Be honor
Ever upon her,
Whether as maiden,
Shy, beauty-laden –
Daughter, wife, sister,
Who can resist her?
Or as that other
And greater, the Mother,
Her babe – blossoms moulding
To perfect unfolding –
The home-temple guarding
To riches rewarding.

Though none be purer,
Sweeter and surer,
Avenues wider
Now open beside her.
Each day some new way!
God send the true way
She may seek ever
With earnest endeavor.
Here to the dark, a light!
Here to the wrong, a right!
There the truth sifting!
A soul, here, uplifting!
Patient, prevailing.
With purpose unfailing,
Till at life’s portal
Through Love immortal,
Supremely she stands,
The World in her hands.


Woman! All honor
And blessing upon her!
Knowing her truly,
Knowing her fully,
All her completeness,
Tenderness, sweetness –
Though there be times, too,
Sweet hardly rhymes to,
All of the changes
Through which she ranges,
Moods, tenses, phases,
I sing her praises.

Not when the earth, supine,
In sultry summer-shine
Panted in tawny vesture, leonine;
Panted amid the main
Of billowy golden grain
And golden-tasseled corn;
Faint with the odors, born
Of field and fallow-waving fan and plume
Of the hot tropic bloom,
The lilies’ luster and the roses’ flame,
The pure Redeemer came;
Not with the argosies
Borne on the teeming tides of harvestries,
When ripened fruits fall to the ripened sheaves,
And rainbows tangle in the drifted leaves.

Not when, the woods within,
The brown, bared boughs begin,
Green speck on speck,
Their nakedness to deck,
Till branch and tree glow as with emerald fire;
And one by one return the forest-choir,
Note answering note
From feathered throat to throat,
Pipe, trill. flute, carol-till full song takes wing
With budded sunshine-choruses that ring
To the glad world awakening, the glad Spring-
Came He our Lord and King.

But at earth’s travail-hour!
In time of tempest-lower
And wild winds’ roar,
And maddened ocean-shock
Upon the livid rock,
And drenched, drowned shore.
When from the shuddering cold
The shepherd leads his bleating flock to fold,
And all things seek release
From earth’s wild tumult, came the Prince of Peace!
And from the heavens-those centuries ago-
The New Star shone upon the wastes of snow.

Mine, to loose or to hold,
I held it, thus, in my hand.
Mine, to fetter or free-
Which should it be?
Dear little wings of gold,
Dear little voice that trilled
All the gay summer long,
Making each day a song!
Well, but one tires, at times,
Of even one’s favorite rhymes;
Of roses, oversweet;
Of joys that are too complete;
Of all things in one’s reach:
And just to be alone
With silence sweeter than speech,
Seems best of all things known.
Mine to command,
Hold captive, as I willed:
Little light wings, away!
Into the golden day-
Away, away,
Into the golden sky-
Good-by! Good-by!

That was a year ago.
Was it well-was it wiser so?
Shall I ever know?
A whole long weary year,
And summer is here.
But the rose a redness lacks,
And the sun is chill,
And the world, somehow, too still,
And time a dreary tax
On body and heart and brain.
Would it be less, I wonder,

If I could only hear
A piping, soft and clear,
A little mellow strain
Come back again?
Or see the flutterings
Of dainty golden wings,
That clove heaven’s blue asunder,
Away and away from me
Away and away,
On one poor foolish day?
Ah, well! Was it so to be,
And better so?
I shall never, never know.
It is gone-let it go.
But O! for the dear love-strain
Mine once, mine never again!
For the fluttering wings of gold,
Mine to loose or to hold-
Held lightly, loosened-so,
A year ago!

Mine, to loose or to hold,
I held it, thus, in my hand.
Mine, to fetter or free-
Which should it be?
Dear little wings of gold,
Dear little voice that trilled
All the gay summer long,
Making each day a song!
Well, but one tires at times
Of even one’s favorite rhymes;
Of roses, oversweet,
Of joys that are too complete,
Of all things in one’s reach;
And just to be alone
With silence sweeter than speech,
Seems best of all things known.
Mine to command,
Hold captive, as I willed:
Little light wings, away!
Into the golden day,
Away, away, -
Into the golden sky-
Good-by! Good-by!

That was a year ago:
Was it well, was it wiser so?
Shall I ever, ever know?
A whole long weary year,
And summer is here:
But the rose a redness lacks,
And the sun is chill,
And the world, somehow, too still,
And time a dreary tax
On body and heart and brain.
Would it be less, I wonder,
If I could only hear
A piping, soft and clear,
A little mellow strain
Come back again?
Or see the flutterings
Of dainty golden wings,
That clove heaven’s blue asunder,
Away and away from me
Away and away,
On one poor foolish day?
Ah, well! Was it so to be,
And better so?
I shall never, never know.
It is gone-let it go.
But O, for the dear love-strain
Mine once, mine never again!
For the fluttering wings of gold,
Mine to loose or to hold-
Held lightly, loosened-so-
A year ago!

Most lives lie more in the shadow, I think, than in the sun,
And the shadow from some is lifted only when life is done;
And so, though I wear mourning, I am glad at heart to know,
She rests in her still white slumber, under the Christmas snow.

She was to have married Philip. He sailed withhis ship in June.
How long they walked by the sea that night, under the waning moon!
“A year and a day of parting, and a lifetime, sweet, with you.”
Ah me, but we dream life bravely, if only our dreams came true!

She spoke of him very little: ‘twas never her way to talk;
But the restless nights, the restless days, the long, long tireless walk,
Forever beside the ocean. I fancied, almost, there grew
A picture of ocean within her eyes. O tend’rest eyes I knew!

Forever the ocean! Until her heart seemed even to time its beat
With the pulse and the throb of the waters that drifted to her feet;
She smiled when the sea was smiling, and her face in the tempest roar
Grew white as the fury of breakers, that beat on the rocky shore.

Again and again in dead of night, I wakened to find-ah me! -
The still, white form at the window that looked on the lonely sea.
Forever and ever the ocean! And I thought, with yearning pain,
“If only the year were over, and Philip were back again! ”

June passed into December. We were merry at Christmas-tide.
Berry and oak and holly, and folk from the country-side;
Music and feast and frolic, laughter and life and light-
I never missed poor Maggie, till far into the night.

Why should I think of the saying, somewhere that I had read:
“Pray for the one beloved, if he be living or dead,
In the hush of the Christmas midnight he will appear to thee.”
O Maggie, sister Maggie, down by the moaning sea! -

Still as a ghost in the moonlight; white as the drifted snow;
Cold as the pitiless waters, surging to and fro.
Why are your arms extended-what do your eyes behold?
O Maggie, sister Maggie, never your lips have told!

I do not like to speak it. You surely will understand.
She was always gentle and harmless; -nay, when the days are bland’
Quite happy, I think; but in winter, when winds and waves were high,
She would shudder at times, and utter a pitiful, moaning cry.

A meadow greenly carpeted:
A strip of woodland, brown and cool,
Through which the wandering pathway led
Unto the village school:

The little pathway he and I,
Across the happy summer-land,
In happy summer times gone by,
Trod, daily, hand in hand.

The mountain stream, far off, that drew
Its glittering length across the farm,
Reached softly down the vale, and threw
The path one cool, white arm;

And careless as the truant tide
That flashed its crystal in the sun,
Or slipped along the woodland side,
Our wayward feet would run.

Through tangled ferns, up furzy slopes,
Where the broad forest shadows fell,
Through golden seas of buttercups,
Wind-rippled, down the dell;

We plashed the foamy water-brink,
We followed on the rabbit’s track,
And rang the merry bobolink
His saucy challenge back.

How tenderly, from stone to stone,
Where the deep stream ran swift and clear,
He led my timid footsteps on-
My gay, young cavalier!

He knew each haunt of bird and bee;
The secret of each nestling brood;
He mimicked every melody
That thrilled the listening wood;

With many a carved and quaint design,
Would fashion acorns into beads,
Chains of the needles of the pine,
And whistles out of reeds.

Ah! many a time the brave voice spake,
An earnest pleader in my cause;
The tanned, round hand went out to take
Dire strokes for broken laws;
And many a prompting, timely said,
The master’s dreaded anger turned
From the small, idle, flaxen head
Whose tasks were yet unlearned!

What quaint, sweet summer gifts he brought!
A white pond-lily, filled to th’ brim
With scarlet berries; buds, half shut;
Gold fruits on leaf and limb;

Some wide-blown flower with tawny dyes;
A butterfly with jeweled wing,
Or captive bird, with frighted eyes
And wee heart, fluttering.

Dear playmate! in those golden ways
Your heart found rest: my heart endures:
But, through the weary days and days,
Life gives no love like yours!

Life gives no faith! Ah, child-mate, dear,
When the appointed years shall fall
From off me, as a cloud, and near
And clear I hear the call-

And the new way is strange to me,
Reach thou, and lead me, hand-in-hand,
As down the path of old, till we
Before the Master stand!

There yet once more thy brave voice raise,
O playmate! in thy truant’s cause,
For tasks unlearned, for wasted days,
For all His broken laws!

A meadow greenly carpeted,
A strip of woodland, brown and cool,
Through which the wandering pathway led
Unto the village school:

The little pathway he and I,
Across the happy summer-land,
In happy summer-times, gone by,
Trod, daily, hand-in-hand.

The mountain-stream, far off, the drew
Its glittering length across the farm,
Reached softly down the vale, and threw
The path one cool, white arm;

And, careless as the truant tide
That flashed its crystal in the sun,
Or crept along the woodland side,
Our wayward feet would run-

Through tangled ferns, up furzy slopes,
Where the broad forest-shadow fell;
Through golden seas of buttercups,
Wind-rippled-down the dell;

We splashed the foamy water-brink,
We followed on the rabbit’s track,
And rang the saucy bobolink
His merry challenge back.

How tenderly, from stone to stone,
Where the deep stream ran swift and clear,
He led my timid footsteps on-
My little cavalier!

He knew each haunt of bird and bee,
The secret of each nestling brood;
He echoed every melody
That thrilled the listening wood;

With many a carved and quaint design,
Would fashion acorns into beads,
Chains of the needless of the pine,
And whistles out of reeds.
Ah! many a time the brave voice spake,
An earnest pleader in my cause;
The tanned, round hand went out to take
Dire strokes for broken laws;

And many a prompting, timely said,
The master’s dreaded anger turned
From the small, idle, flaxen head
Whose tasks were yet unlearned!

What quaint, sweet summer gifts he brought:
A white pond-lily filled to th’ brim
With scarlet berries; buds, half shut;
Gold fruits on leaf and limb;

Some wide-blown flow’r with tawny dyes;
A butterfly with jeweled wing,
Or captive bird with frighted eyes
And wee heart fluttering!

Dear playmate, in those golden ways
Your heart found rest; my heart indures.
But, through the weary days and days,
Life gives no love like yours! -

Life gives no faith! Ah, child-mate dear!
When the appointed years shall fall
From off me, as a cloud, and near
And clear I hear the call,

And the new way is strange to me,
Reach thou, and lead me, hand-in-hand,
As down the path of old, till we
Before the Master stand!


There yet once more thy brave voice raise,
O playmate! In thy truant’s cause,
For tasks unlearned, for wasted days,
For all His broken laws!

Long weary leagues across the treacherous plain,
Long weary leagues across the treacherous sea,
Comrades with danger, clasping hands with pain,
Pathmakers, builders of the State to be.

Boys with their school texts still upon their lips,
And stalwart men in sinewy, bearded prime,
And feeble age-on, on where sunshine drips
Its golden splendors in a golden clime.

Gold! Gold! The glittering lure that beckoned them!
Not gold, as now, of fruit on hills and plains,
Fair, fragrant, luscious, upon bough and stem-
But Gold! The metal-blood of the earth’s grim veins.

Some, overmastered, laid them down and slept
The sleep unwakening in a prairie-grave;
And some restless tryst forever kept
With Death, beneath the unrecording wave.

And some like Israel of old, the Land
Of Promise reached, beheld and found it fair

Beyond the promise, and with greedy hand
Gathered great riches with its greater care-

And died, and passed forgotten to the grave;
And some, with nobler souls to think and feel
Gave back its treasures to the land which gave,
Building the pillars of the Commonweal.

But one there came, indeed, for Gold alone!
A gold which knew not tarnish nor alloy;
With luster bright as God’s own starry zone,
Unspoiled of time-that death might not destroy.

A gold he came to seek not, but to give;
The Gold of Knowledge. From the shattered spoils
Of all earth’s cares, ah, what alone may live
Of man’s achievements? Man’s unending toils?

Knowledge and Truth alone. All else is dust.
Treasure to ransom worlds but ruthless dross,
Swept by winds, fretted of mould and rust;
Thrones, empires, races-death, oblivion, loss.

And Knowledge is but Truth! A lighted way
Leading to heights supreme from lowest sod;
From morning twilight to immortal day-
From God’s creation to Creation’s God....

Long did he labor; knew the plenteous lack
Of that, the baser metal of man’s aim-
But wearied not, nor faltered, nor turned back,
And lo! at last fruition’s glory came.

He saw the humble School-Walls widen, grow,
And stand, proud halls upon the Berkley hills;
The tree-crowned slopes, the fields in emerald glow,
The throng that studious quietude that fills;

The Golden Gate by wave and sun caressed,
In outward look across the Bay’s blue floor,
And from those walls into the mighty west
Fair Science beckon from her open door.

His Gold had blossomed! Ah, what more for him
Could earth in folded days hold still concealed?
Happy, he passed beyond our Planet’s rim,
To where, in God, all Knowledge is revealed.


*In memory of Doctor Henry Durant, First president of the University of California.

Was it the sigh and shiver of the leaves?
Was it the murmer of the meadow brook,
That in and out the reeds and water weeds
Slipped silverly, and on their tremulous keys
Uttered her many melodies? Or voice
Of the far sea, red with the sunset gold,
That sang within her shining shores, and sang
Within the gate, that in the sunset shone
A gate of fire against the outer world?

For, ever as I turned the magic page
Of that old song the old, blind singer sang
Unto the world, when it and song were young—
The ripple of the reeds, or odorous,
Soft sigh of leaves, or voice of the far sea-
A mystical, low murmur, tremulous
Upon the wind, came in with musk of rose,
The salt breath of the waves, and far, faint smell
Of laurel up the slopes of Tamalpais....

“Am I less fair, am I less fair than these,
Daughters of far-off seas?

Daughters of far-off shores, - bleak, over-blown
With foam of fretful tides, with wail and moan
Of waves, that toss wild hands, that clasp and beat
Wild, desolate hands above the lonely sands,
Printed no more with pressure of their feet:
That chase no more the light feet flying swift
Up golden sands, nor lift
Foam fingers white unto their garment hem,
And flowing hair of them.

“For these are dead: the fair, great queens are dead!
The long hair’s gold a dust the wind bloweth
Wherever it may list;
The curved lips, that kissed
Heroes and kings of men, a dust that breath,
Nor speech, nor laughter, ever guickeneth;
And all the glory sped
From the large, marvelous eyes, the light whereof
Wrought wonder in their hearts, - desire, and love!
And wrought not any good:
But strife, and curses of the gods, and flood,
And fire and battle-death!
Am I less fair, less fair,
Because that my hands bear
Neither a sword, nor any flaming brand,
To blacken and make desolate my land,
But on my brows are leaves of olive boughs,
And in mine arms a dove!

“Sea-born and goddess, blossom of the foam
Pale Aphrodite, shadowy as a mist
Not any sun hath kissed!
Tawny of limb I roam,
The dusks of forests dark within my hair;
The far Yosemite,
For garment and for covering me,
Wove the white foam and mist,
The amber and the rose and amethyst
Of her wild fountains, shaken loose in air.
And I am of the hills and of the sea:
Strong with the strength of my great hills, and calm
With calm of the fair sea, whose billowy gold
Girdles the land whose queen and love I am!
Lo! Am I less than thou,
That with a sound of lyres, and harp-playing,
Not any voice doth sing
The beauty of mine eyelids and my brow?
Nor hymn in all my fair and gracious ways,
And lengths of golden days,
The measure and the music of my praise?

“Ah, what indeed is this
Old land beyond the seas, that ye should miss
For her the grace and majesty of mine?
Are not the fruits and vine
Fair on my hills, and in my vales the roses?
The palm-tree and the pine
Strike hands together under the same skies
In every wind that blows.
What clearer heavens can shine
Above the land whereon the shadow lies
Of her dead glory, and her slaughtered kings,

And lost, evanished gods?
Upon my fresh green sods
No king has walked to curse and desolate:
But in the valleys Freedom sits and sings,
And on ths heights above;
Upon her brows the leaves of olive boughs,
And in her arms a dove;
And the great hills are pure, undesecrate,
White with their snows untrod,
And mighty with the presence of their God!

“Harken, how many years
I sat alone, I sat alone and heard
Only the silence stirred
By wind and leaf, by clash of grassy spears,
And singing bird that called to singing bird.
Heard but the savage tongue
Of my brown savage children, that among
The hills and valleys chased the buck and doe,
And round the wigwam fires
Chanted wild songs of their wild savage sires,
And danced their wild, weird dances to and fro,
And wrought their beaded robes of buffalo.
Day following upon day,
Saw but the panther crouched upon the limb,
Smooth serpents, swift and slim,
Slip through the reeds and grasses, and the bear
Crush through his tangled lair
Of chapparal, upon the startled prey!

“Listen, how I have seen
Flash of strange fires in gorge and black ravine;
Heard the sharp clang of steel, that came to drain
The mountain’s golden vein-
And laughed and sang, and sang and laughed again,
Because that ‘now, ’ I said, ‘I shall be known!
I shall not set alone;
But reach my hands unto my sister lands!
And they? Will they not turn
Old, wondering dim eyes to me, and yearn-
Aye, they will yearn, in sooth,
To my glad beauty, and my glad fresh youth! ’

“What matters though the morn
Redden upon my singing fields of corn!
What matters though the wind’s unresting feet
Ripple the vales run with wine,
Ang on these hills of mine
The orchard boughs droop heavy with ripe fruit?
When with nor sound of lute
Nor lyre, doth any singer chant and sing
Me, in my life’s fair spring:
The matin song of me in my young day?
But all my lays and mountain to the farther hem
Of sea, and there be none to gather them.

“Lo! I have waited long!
How longer yet must my strung harp be dumb,
Ere its great master come?
Till the fair singer comes to wake the strong,
Rapt chords of it unto the new, glad song!


Him a diviner speech
My song-birds wait to teach:
The secrets of the field
My blossoms will not yeld
To other hands than his;
And, lingering for this,
My Laurels lend the glory of their boughs
To crown no narrower brows.
For on his lips must wisdom sit with youth,
And in his eyes, and on his lids thereof,
The light of a great love-
And on his forehead, truth! ”...

Was in the wind, or the soft sigh of leaves,
Or sound of singing waters? Lo, I looked,
And saw the silvery ripples of the brook,
The fruit upon the hills, the waving trees,
And mellow fields of harvest; saw the Gate
Burn in the sunset; the thin thread of mist
Creep white across the Saucelito hills;
Till the day darkened down the ocean rim,
The sunset purple slipped from Tamalpais,
And bay and sky were bright with sudden stars.