Answered the mountains, dim in the distance dreaming:
"Ours are the forests that treasure the riches of rain;
Ours are the secret springs and the rivulets gleaming
Silverly down through the manifold bloom of the plain.
"Vain were the toiling of men in the dust of the dry land,
Vain were the ploughing and planting in waterless fields,
Save for the life-giving currents we send from the sky land,
Save for the fruit our embrace with the storm-cloud yields."
O mother mountains, Madre Sierra, I love you!
Rightly you reign o'er the vale that your bounty fills,—
Kissed by the sun, or with big, bright stars above you,—
I murmur your name and lift up mine eyes to the hills.
Pasadena, March, 1913.
SCHOOL
I put my heart to school
In the world where men grow wise:
"Go out," I said, "and learn the rule;
'Come back when you win a prize.'"
My heart came back again:
"Now where is the prize?" I cried.—
"The rule was false, and the prize was pain,
And the teacher's name was Pride."
I put my heart to school
In the woods where veeries sing
And brooks run clear and cool,
In the fields where wild flowers spring.
"And why do you stay so long
My heart, and where do you roam?"
The answer came with a laugh and a song,—
"I find this school is home."
April, 1901.