From far Cathay, the oldest land of lands,
A giant sunk in poppied, dreamful rest,
I come where earth’s great last-born nation stands,
Flower of the centuries, the titanic West.
I come where East and West stand face to face,
The childhood and the manhood of the race.
SPRING IN THE SOUTH.
Through the quaint southern winter without snow,
Without an icy blast or chilling air,
When the broad mesas arid lie and bare,
The Ishmael cactus and the sage brush grow.
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.