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.
I thought that life could have no sting
To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
With wonder and surprise,
While sadly with his waving wing
He wiped his weeping eyes.
Said I, “What can the matter be?
Why weepest thou so sore?
With garden fair and sunlight free
And flowers in goodly store—”
But he only turned away from me
And burst into a roar.
Cried he, “My legs are thin and few
Where once I had a swarm!
Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view—
Once kept my body warm,
Before these flapping wing-things grew,
To hamper and deform!”
At that outrageous bug I shot
The fury of mine eye;
Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
In rage and anger high,
“You ignominious idiot!
Those wings are made to fly!”
“I do not want to fly,” said he,
“I only want to squirm!”
And he drooped his wings dejectedly,
But still his voice was firm;
“I do not want to be a fly!
I want to be a worm!”
O yesterday of unknown lack!
To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black,
The last I saw was this,—
The creature madly climbing back
Into his chrysalis.
AN OBSTACLE.
I was climbing up a mountain-path
With many things to do,
Important business of my own,
And other people’s too,
When I ran against a Prejudice
That quite cut off the view.
My work was such as could not wait,
My path quite clearly showed,
My strength and time were limited,
I carried quite a load;
And there that hulking Prejudice
Sat all across the road.
So I spoke to him politely,
For he was huge and high,
And begged that he would move a bit
And let me travel by.
He smiled, but as for moving!—
He didn’t even try.
And then I reasoned quietly
With that colossal mule:
My time was short—no other path—
The mountain winds were cool.
I argued like a Solomon;
He sat there like a fool.
Then I flew into a passion,
I danced and howled and swore.
I pelted and belabored him
Till I was stiff and sore;
He got as mad as I did—
But he sat there as before.
And then I begged him on my knees;
I might be kneeling still
If so I hoped to move that mass
Of obdurate ill-will—
As well invite the monument
To vacate Bunker Hill!
So I sat before him helpless,
In an ecstasy of woe—
The mountain mists were rising fast,
The sun was sinking slow—
When a sudden inspiration came,
As sudden winds do blow.
I took my hat, I took my stick,
My load I settled fair,
I approached that awful incubus
With an absent-minded air—
And I walked directly through him,
As if he wasn’t there!
THE FOX WHO HAD LOST HIS TAIL.
The fox who had lost his tail found out
That now he could faster go;
He had less to cover when hid for prey,
He had less to carry on hunting day,
He had less to guard when he stood at bay;
He was really better so!
Now he was a fine altruistical fox
With the good of his race at heart,
So he ran to his people with tailless speed,
To tell of the change they all must need,
And recommend as a righteous deed
That they and their tails should part!
Plain was the gain as plain could be,
But his words did not avail;
For they all replied, “We perceive your case;
You do not speak for the good of the race,
But only to cover your own disgrace,
Because you have lost your tail!”
Then another fox, of a liberal mind,
With a tail of splendid size,
Became convinced that the tailless state
Was better for all of them, soon or late.
Said he, “I will let my own tail wait,
And so I can open their eyes.”
Plain was the gain as plain could be,
But his words did not avail,
For they all made answer, “My plausible friend,
You talk wisely and well, but you talk to no end.
We know you’re dishonest and only pretend,
For you have not lost your tail!”
THE SWEET USES OF ADVERSITY.
In Norway fiords, in summer-time,
The Norway birch is fair:
The white trunks shine, the green leaves twine,
The whole tree groweth tall and fine;
For all it wants is there,—
Water and warmth and air,—
Full fed in all its nature needs, and showing
That nature in perfection by its growing.
But follow the persistent tree
To the limit of endless snow
There you may see what a birch can be!
The product showeth plain and free
How nobly plants can grow
With nine months’ winter slow.
’Tis fitted to survive in that position,
Developed by the force of bad condition.
See now what life the tree doth keep,—
Branchless, three-leaved, and tough;
In June the leaf-buds peep, flowers in July dare creep
To bloom, the fruit in August, and then sleep.
Strong is the tree and rough,
It lives, and that’s enough.
“Dog’s-ear” the name the peasants call it by—
A Norway birch—and less than one inch high!
· · · · ·
That silver monarch of the summer wood,
Tall, straight, and lovely, rich in all things good,
Knew not in his perversity
The sweeter uses of adversity!
CONNOISSEURS.
“No,” said the Cultured Critic, gazing haughtily
Whereon some untrained brush had wandered naughtily,
From canons free;
“Work such as this lacks value and perspective,
Has no real feeling,—inner or reflective,—
Does not appeal to me.”
Then quoth the vulgar, knowing art but meagrely,
Their unbesought opinions airing eagerly,
“Why, ain’t that flat?”
Voicing their ignorance all unconcernedly,
Saying of what the Critic scored so learnedly,
“I don’t like that!”
The Critic now vouchsafed approval sparingly
Of what some genius had attempted daringly,
“This fellow tries;
He handles his conception frankly, feelingly.
Such work as this, done strongly and appealingly,
I recognize.”
The vulgar, gazing widely and unknowingly,
Still volunteered their cheap impressions flowingly,
“Oh, come and see!”
But all that they could say of art’s reality
Was this poor voice of poorer personality,
“Now, that suits me!”
TECHNIQUE.
Cometh to-day the very skilful man;
Profoundly skilful in his chosen art;
All things that other men can do he can,
And do them better. He is very smart.
Sayeth, “My work is here before you all;
Come now with duly cultured mind to view it.
Here is great work, no part of it is small;
Perceive how well I do it!
“I do it to perfection. Studious years
Were spent to reach the pinnacle I’ve won;
Labor and thought are in my work, and tears.
Behold how well ’tis done!
“See with what power this great effect is shown;
See with what ease you get the main idea;
A master in my art, I stand alone;
Now you may praise,—I hear.”
And I, “O master, I perceive your sway,
I note the years of study, toil, and strain
That brought the easy power you wield to-day,
The height you now attain.
“Freely your well-trained power I see you spend,
Such skill in all my life I never saw;
You have done nobly; but, my able friend,
What have you done it for?
“You have no doubt achieved your dearest end:
Your work is faultless to the cultured view.
You do it well, but, O my able friend,
What is it that you do?”
THE PASTELLETTE.
“The pastelle is too strong,” said he.
“Lo! I will make it fainter yet!”
And he wrought with tepid ecstasy
A pastellette.
A touch—a word—a tone half caught—
He softly felt and handled them;
Flavor of feeling—scent of thought—
Shimmer of gem—
That we may read, and feel as he
What vague, pale pleasure we can get
From this mild, witless mystery,—
The pastellette.
THE PIG AND THE PEARL.
Said the Pig to the Pearl, “Oh, fie!
Tasteless, and hard, and dry—
Get out of my sty!
Glittering, smooth, and clean,
You only seek to be seen!
I am dirty and big!
A virtuous, valuable pig.
For me all things are sweet
That I can possibly eat;
But you—how can you be good
Without being fit for food?
Not even food for me,
Who can eat all this you see,
No matter how foul and sour;
I revel from hour to hour
In refuse of great and small;
But you are no good at all,
And if I should gulp you, quick,
It would probably make me sick!”
Said the Pig to the Pearl, “Oh, fie!”
And she rooted her out of the sty.
A Philosopher chancing to pass
Saw the Pearl in the grass,
And laid hands on the same in a trice,
For the Pearl was a Pearl of Great Price.
Said he, “Madame Pig, if you knew
What a fool thing you do,
It would grieve even you!
Grant that pearls are not just to your taste,
Must you let them run waste?
You care only for hogwash, I know,
For your litter and you. Even so,
This tasteless hard thing which you scorn
Would buy acres of corn;
And apples, and pumpkins, and pease,
By the ton, if you please!
By the wealth which this pearl represents,
You could grow so immense—
You, and every last one of your young—
That your fame would be sung
As the takers of every first prize,
For your flavor and size!
From even a Pig’s point of view
The Pearl was worth millions to you.
Be a Pig—and a fool—(you must be them)
But try to know Pearls when you see them!”
POOR HUMAN NATURE.
I saw a meagre, melancholy cow,
Blessed with a starveling calf that sucked in vain;
Eftsoon he died. I asked the mother how—?
Quoth she, “Of every four there dieth twain!”
Poor bovine nature!