Shyly, shyly she is coming while the sun is in the dew
On her path—ah! the rancher’s daughter.
II.
SNOW-WIND.
Down from the stately Sierras, down through our valley of flowers
Sweeps the snow-wind from far summits; the white rose trembles and cowers;
The red rose flaming beside it, bends quivering and yields
Its homage to the strong wind, rushing on to the green wheat fields.
III.
A PINE-CONE FIRE.
Not two, not three, but twenty! Now half of twenty more—
Huge cones that the kings of the forest, the kings of the forest bore.