Part 5

Wide-flowing, self-sown, stealing near and far, Breaking the green like islands in the sea; Great stretches at your feet, and spots that bend Dwindling over the horizon’s end,— Wild beds of fleur-de-lys.

The light keen wind streams on across the lifts, Thin wind of western springtime by the sea; The close turf smiles unmoved, but over her Is the far-flying rustle and sweet stir In beds of fleur-de-lys.

And here and there across the smooth, low grass Tall maidens wander, thinking of the sea; And bend, and bend, with light robes blown aside, For the blue lily-flowers that bloom so wide,— The beds of fleur-de-lys.

THE PRESIDIO, SAN FRANCISCO.

IT IS GOOD TO BE ALIVE.

It is good to be alive when the trees shine green, And the steep red hills stand up against the sky; Big sky, blue sky, with flying clouds between— It is good to be alive and see the clouds drive by!

It is good to be alive when the strong winds blow, The strong, sweet winds blowing straightly off the sea; Great sea, green sea, with swinging ebb and flow— It is good to be alive and see the waves roll free!

THE CHANGELESS YEAR. SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

Doth Autumn remind thee of sadness? And Winter of wasting and pain? Midsummer, of joy that was madness? Spring, of hope that was vain?

Do the Seasons fly fast at thy laughter? Do the Seasons lag slow if thou weep, Till thou long’st for the land lying after The River of Sleep?

Come here, where the West lieth golden In the light of an infinite sun, Where Summer doth Winter embolden Till they reign here as one!

Here the Seasons tread soft and steal slowly; A moment of question and doubt— Is it Winter? Come faster!—come wholly!— And Spring rusheth out!

We forget there are tempests and changes; We forget there are days that are drear; In a dream of delight, the soul ranges Through the measureless year.

Still the land is with blossoms enfolden, Still the sky burneth blue in its deeps; Time noddeth, ’mid poppies all golden, And memory sleeps.

WHERE MEMORY SLEEPS. RONDEAU.

Where memory sleeps the soul doth rise, Free of that past where sorrow lies, And storeth against future ills The courage of the constant hills, The comfort of the quiet skies.

Fair is this land to tired eyes, Where summer sunlight never dies, And summer’s peace the spirit fills, Where memory sleeps.

Safe from the season’s changing cries And chill of yearly sacrifice, Great roses crowd the window-sills,— Calm roses that no winter kills. The peaceful heart all pain denies, Where memory sleeps.

CALIFORNIA CAR WINDOWS.

Lark songs ringing to Heaven, Earth light clear as the sky; Air like the breath of a greenhouse With the greenhouse roof on high.

Flowers to see till you’re weary, To travel in hours and hours; Ranches of gold and purple, Counties covered with flowers!

A rainbow, a running rainbow, That flies at our side for hours; A ribbon, a broidered ribbon, A rainbow ribbon of flowers.

LIMITS.

On sand—loose sand and shifting— On sand—dry sand and drifting— The city grows to the west; Not till its border reaches The ocean-beaten beaches Will it rest.

On hills—steep hills and lonely, That stop at cloudland only— The city climbs to the sky; Not till the souls who make it Touch the clear light and take it, Will it die.

POWELL STREET.

You start From the town’s hot heart To ride up Powell Street. Hotel and theatre and crowding shops, And Market’s cabled stream that never stops, And the mixed hurrying beat Of countless feet— Take a front seat. Before you rise Six terraced hills, up to the low-hung skies; Low where across the hill they seem to lie, And then—how high! Up you go slowly. To the right A wide square, green and bright. Above that green a broad façade, Strongly and beautifully made, In warm clear color standeth fair and true Against the blue. Only, above, two purple domes rise bold, Twin-budded spires, bright-tipped with balls of gold. Past that, and up you glide, Up, up, till, either side, Wide earth and water stretch around—away— The straits, the hills, and the low-lying, wide-spread, dusky bay. Great houses here, Dull, opulent, severe. Dives’ gold birds on guarding lamps a-wing— Dead gold, that may not sing! Fair on the other side Smooth, steep-laid sweeps of turf and green boughs waving wide. This is the hilltop’s crown. Below you, down In blurred, dim streets, the market quarter lies, Foul, narrow, torn with cries Of tortured things in cages, and the smell Of daily bloodshed rising; that is hell.

But up here on the crown of Powell Street The air is sweet; And the green swaying mass of eucalyptus bends Like hands of friends, To gladden you despite the mansions’ frown. Then you go down.

Down, down, and round the turns to lower grades; Lower in all ways; darkening with the shades Of poverty, old youth, and unearned age, And that quick squalor which so blots the page Of San Francisco’s beauty,—swift decay Chasing the shallow grandeur of a day.

Here, like a noble lady of lost state, Still calmly smiling at encroaching fate, Amidst the squalor, rises Russian Hill,— Proud, isolated, lonely, lovely still.

So on you glide. Till the blue straits lie wide Before you; purple mountains loom across, And islands green as moss; With soft white fog-wreaths drifting, drifting through To comfort you; And light, low-singing waves that tell you reach The end,—North Beach.

FROM RUSSIAN HILL.

A strange day—bright and still; Strange for the stillness here, For the strong trade-winds blow With such a steady sweep it seems like rest, Forever steadily across the crest Of Russian Hill.

Still now and clear,— So clear you count the houses spreading wide In the fair cities on the farther side Of our broad bay; And brown Goat Island lieth large between, Its brownness brightening into sudden green From rains of yesterday.

Blue? Blue above of Californian sky, Which has no peer on earth for its pure flame; Bright blue of bay and strait spread wide below, And, past the low, dull hills that hem it so,— Blue as the sky, blue as the placid bay,— Blue mountains far away.

Thanks this year for the early rains that came To bless us, meaning Summer by and by. This is our Spring-in-Autumn, making one The Indian Summer tenderness of sun— Its hazy stillness, and soft far-heard sound— And the sweet riot of abundant spring, The greenness flaming out from everything, The sense of coming gladness in the ground.

From this high peace and purity look down; Between you and the blueness lies the town. Under those huddled roofs the heart of man Beats warmer than this brooding day, Spreads wider than the hill-rimmed bay, And throbs to tenderer life, were it but seen, Than all this new-born, all-enfolding green!

Within that heart lives still All that one guesses, dreams, and sees— Sitting in sunlight, warm, at ease— From this high island,—Russian Hill.

“AN UNUSUAL RAIN.”

Again! Another day of rain! It has rained for years. It never clears. The clouds come down so low They drag and drip Across each hill-top’s tip. In progress slow They blow in from the sea Eternally; Hang heavily and black, And then roll back; And rain and rain and rain, Both drifting in and drifting out again.

They come down to the ground, These clouds, where the ground is high; And, lest the weather fiend forget And leave one hidden spot unwet, The fog comes up to the sky! And all our pavement of planks and logs Reeks with the rain and steeps in the fogs Till the water rises and sinks and presses Into your bonnets and shoes and dresses; And every outdoor-going dunce Is wet in forty ways at once.

Wet? It’s wetter than being drowned. Dark? Such darkness never was found Since first the light was made. And cold? O come to the land of grapes and gold, Of fruit and flowers and sunshine gay, When the rainy season’s under way!

And they tell you calmly, evermore, They never had such rain before!

What’s that you say? Come out? Why, see that sky! Oh, what a world! so clear! so high! So clean and lovely all about; The sunlight burning through and through, And everything just blazing blue. And look! the whole world blossoms again The minute the sunshine follows the rain. Warm sky—earth basking under— Did it ever rain, I wonder?

THE HILLS.

The flowing waves of our warm sea Roll to the beach and die, But the soul of the waves forever fills The curving crests of our restless hills That climb so wantonly.

Up and up till you look to see Along the cloud-kissed top The great hill-breakers curve and comb In crumbling lines of falling foam Before they settle and drop.

Down and down, with the shuddering sweep Of the sea-wave’s glassy wall, You sink with a plunge that takes your breath, A thrill that stirreth and quickeneth, Like the great line steamer’s fall.

We have laid our streets by the square and line, We have built by the line and square; But the strong hill-rises arch below And force the houses to curve and flow In lines of beauty there.

And off to the north and east and south, With wildering mists between, They ring us round with wavering hold, With fold on fold of rose and gold, Violet, azure, and green.

CITY’S BEAUTY.

Fair, oh, fair are the hills uncrowned, Only wreathed and garlanded With the soft clouds overhead, With the waving streams of rain; Fair in golden sunlight drowned, Bathed and buried in the bright Warm luxuriance of light,— Fair the hills without a stain.

Fairer far the hills should stand Crownèd with a city’s halls, With the glimmer of white walls, With the climbing grace of towers; Fair with great fronts tall and grand, Stately streets that meet the sky, Lovely roof-lines, low and high,— Fairer for the days and hours.

Woman’s beauty fades and flies, In the passing of the years, With the falling of the tears, With the lines of toil and stress; City’s beauty never dies,— Never while her people know How to love and honor so Her immortal loveliness.

TWO SKIES. FROM ENGLAND.

They have a sky in Albion, At least they tell me so; But she will wear a veil so thick, And she does have the sulks so quick, And weeps so long and slow, That one can hardly know.

Yes, there’s a sky in Albion. She’s shown herself of late. And where it was not white or gray, It was quite bluish—in a way; But near and full of weight, Like an overhanging plate!

Our sky in California! Such light the angels knew, When the strong, tender smile of God Kindled the spaces where they trod, And made all life come true! Deep, soundless, burning blue!

WINDS AND LEAVES. FROM ENGLAND.

Wet winds that flap the sodden leaves! Wet leaves that drop and fall! Unhappy, leafless trees the wind bereaves! Poor trees and small!

All of a color, solemn in your green; All of a color, sombre in your brown; All of a color, dripping gray between When leaves are down!

O for the bronze-green eucalyptus spires Far-flashing up against the endless blue! Shifting and glancing in the steady fires Of sun and moonlight too.

Dark orange groves! Pomegranate hedges bright, And varnished fringes of the pepper trees! And O that wind of sunshine! Wind of light! Wind of Pacific seas!

ON THE PAWTUXET.

Broad and blue is the river, all bright in the sun; The little waves sparkle, the little waves run; The birds carol high, and the winds whisper low; The boats beckon temptingly, row upon row; Her hand is in mine as I help her step in. Please Heaven, this day I shall lose or shall win— Broad and blue is the river.

Cool and gray is the river, the sun sinks apace, And the rose-colored twilight glows soft in her face. In the midst of the rose-color Venus doth shine, And the blossoming wild grapes are sweeter than wine; Tall trees rise above us, four bridges are past, And my stroke’s running slow as the current runs fast— Cool and gray is the river.

Smooth and black is the river, no sound as we float Save the soft-lapping water in under the boat. The white mists are rising, the moon’s rising too, And Venus, triumphant, rides high in the blue. I hold the shawl round her, her hand is in mine, And we drift under grape-blossoms sweeter than wine— Smooth and black is the river.

A MOONRISE.

The heavy mountains, lying huge and dim, With uncouth outline breaking heaven’s brim; And while I watched and waited, o’er them soon, Cloudy, enormous, spectral, rose the moon.

THEIR GRASS! A PROTEST FROM CALIFORNIA.

They say we have no grass! To hear them talk You’d think that grass could walk And was their bosom friend,—no day to pass Between them and their grass.

“No grass!” they say who live Where hot bricks give The hot stones all their heat and back again,— A baking hell for men.

“O, but,” they haste to say, “we have our parks, Where fat policemen check the children’s larks; And sign to sign repeats as in a glass, ‘Keep off the grass!’ We have our cities’ parks and grass, you see!” Well—so have we!

But ’tis the country that they sing of most. “Alas,” They sing, “for our wide acres of soft grass!— To please us living and to hide us dead—” You’d think Walt Whitman’s first was all they read! You’d think they all went out upon the quiet Nebuchadnezzar to outdo in diet! You’d think they found no other green thing fair, Even its seed an honor in their hair! You’d think they had this bliss the whole year round,— Evergreen grass!—and we, ploughed ground!

But come now, how does earth’s pet plumage grow Under your snow? Is your beloved grass as softly nice When packed in ice? For six long months you live beneath a blight,— No grass in sight. You bear up bravely. And not only that, But leave your grass and travel; and thereat We marvel deeply, with slow western mind, Wondering within us what these people find Among our common oranges and palms To tear them from the well-remembered charms Of their dear vegetable. But still they come, Frost-bitten invalids! to our bright home, And chide our grasslessness! Until we say, “But if you hate it so, why come? Why stay? Just go away! Go to—your grass!”

THE PROPHETS.

Time was we stoned the Prophets. Age on age, When men were strong to save, the world hath slain them. People are wiser now; they waste no rage— The Prophets entertain them!

SIMILAR CASES.

There was once a little animal, No bigger than a fox, And on five toes he scampered Over Tertiary rocks. They called him Eohippus, And they called him very small, And they thought him of no value— When they thought of him at all; For the lumpish old Dinoceras And Coryphodon so slow Were the heavy aristocracy In days of long ago.

Said the little Eohippus, “I am going to be a horse! And on my middle finger-nails To run my earthly course! I’m going to have a flowing tail! I’m going to have a mane! I’m going to stand fourteen hands high On the psychozoic plain!”

The Coryphodon was horrified, The Dinoceras was shocked; And they chased young Eohippus, But he skipped away and mocked. Then they laughed enormous laughter, And they groaned enormous groans, And they bade young Eohippus Go view his father’s bones. Said they, “You always were as small And mean as now we see, And that’s conclusive evidence That you’re always going to be. What! Be a great, tall, handsome beast, With hoofs to gallop on? _Why! You’d have to change your nature!_” Said the Loxolophodon. They considered him disposed of, And retired with gait serene; That was the way they argued In “the early Eocene.”

There was once an Anthropoidal Ape, Far smarter than the rest, And everything that they could do He always did the best; So they naturally disliked him, And they gave him shoulders cool, And when they had to mention him They said he was a fool.

Cried this pretentious Ape one day, “I’m going to be a Man! And stand upright, and hunt, and fight, And conquer all I can! I’m going to cut down forest trees, To make my houses higher! I’m going to kill the Mastodon! I’m going to make a fire!”

Loud screamed the Anthropoidal Apes With laughter wild and gay; They tried to catch that boastful one, But he always got away. So they yelled at him in chorus, Which he minded not a whit; And they pelted him with cocoanuts, Which didn’t seem to hit. And then they gave him reasons Which they thought of much avail, To prove how his preposterous Attempt was sure to fail. Said the sages, “In the first place, The thing cannot be done! And, second, if it _could_ be, It would not be any fun! And, third, and most conclusive, And admitting no reply, _You would have to change your nature_! We should like to see you try!” They chuckled then triumphantly, These lean and hairy shapes, For these things passed as arguments With the Anthropoidal Apes.

There was once a Neolithic Man, An enterprising wight, Who made his chopping implements Unusually bright. Unusually clever he, Unusually brave, And he drew delightful Mammoths On the borders of his cave. To his Neolithic neighbors, Who were startled and surprised, Said he, “My friends, in course of time, We shall be civilized! We are going to live in cities! We are going to fight in wars! We are going to eat three times a day Without the natural cause! We are going to turn life upside down About a thing called gold! We are going to want the earth, and take As much as we can hold! We are going to wear great piles of stuff Outside our proper skins! We are going to have Diseases! And Accomplishments!! And Sins!!!”

Then they all rose up in fury Against their boastful friend, For prehistoric patience Cometh quickly to an end. Said one, “This is chimerical! Utopian! Absurd!” Said another, “What a stupid life! Too dull, upon my word!” Cried all, “Before such things can come, You idiotic child, _You must alter Human Nature_!” And they all sat back and smiled. Thought they, “An answer to that last It will be hard to find!” It was a clinching argument To the Neolithic Mind!

A CONSERVATIVE.

The garden beds I wandered by One bright and cheerful morn, When I found a new-fledged butterfly A-sitting on a thorn, A black and crimson butterfly, All doleful and forlorn.