CALIFORNIAWas it the sigh and shiver of the leaves?Was it the murmur of the meadow brook,That in and out the reeds and water weedsSlipped silverly, and on their tremulous keysUttered her many melodies? Or voiceOf the far sea, red with the sunset gold,That sang within her shining shores, and sangWithin the Gate, that in the sunset shoneA gate of fire against the outer world?For, ever as I turned the magic pageOf that old song the old, blind singer sangUnto the world, when it and song were young—The ripple of the reeds, or odorous,Soft sigh of leaves, or voice of the far sea—A mystical, low murmur, tremulousUpon the wind, came in with musk of rose,The salt breath of the waves, and far, faint smellOf laurel up the slopes of Tamalpais. . . ."Am I less fair, am I less fair than these,Daughters of far-off seas?Daughters of far-off shores,—bleak, over-blownWith foam of fretful tides, with wail and moanOf waves, that toss wild hands, that clasp and beatWild, desolate hands above the lonely sands,Printed no more with pressure of their feet:That chase no more the light feet flying swiftUp golden sands, nor liftFoam fingers white unto their garment hem,And flowing hair of them."For these are dead: the fair, great queens are dead!The long hair's gold a dust the wind blowethWherever it may list;The curvëd lips, that kissedHeroes and kings of men, a dust that breath,Nor speech, nor laughter, ever quickeneth;And all the glory spedFrom the large, marvelous eyes, the light whereofWrought wonder in their hearts,—desire, and love!And wrought not any good:But strife, and curses of the gods, and flood,And fire and battle-death!Am I less fair, less fair,Because that my hands bearNeither a sword, nor any flaming brand,To blacken and make desolate my land,But on my brows are leaves of olive boughs,And in mine arms a dove!"Sea-born and goddess, blossom of the foam,Pale Aphrodite, shadowy as a mistNot any sun hath kissed!Tawny of limb I roam,The dusks of forests dark within my hair;The far Yosemite,For garment and for covering of me,Wove the white foam and mist,The amber and the rose and amethystOf her wild fountains, shaken loose in air.And I am of the hills and of the sea:Strong with the strength of my great hills, and calmWith calm of the fair sea, whose billowy goldGirdles the land whose queen and love I am!Lo! am I less than thou,That with a sound of lyres, and harp-playing,Not any voice doth singThe beauty of mine eyelids and my brow?Nor hymn in all my fair and gracious ways,And lengths of golden days,The measure and the music of my praise?"Ah, what indeed is thisOld land beyond the seas, that ye should missFor her the grace and majesty of mine?Are not the fruit and vineFair on my hills, and in my vales the rose?The palm-tree and the pineStrike hands together under the same skiesIn every wind that blows.What clearer heavens can shineAbove the land whereon the shadow liesOf her dead glory, and her slaughtered kings,And lost, evanished gods?Upon my fresh green sodsNo king has walked to curse and desolate:But in the valleys Freedom sits and sings,And on the heights above;Upon her brows the leaves of olive boughs,And in her arms a dove;And the great hills are pure, undesecrate,White with their snows untrod,And mighty with the presence of their God!"Hearken, how many yearsI sat alone, I sat alone and heardOnly the silence stirredBy wind and leaf, by clash of grassy spears,And singing bird that called to singing bird.Heard but the savage tongueOf my brown savage children, that amongThe hills and valleys chased the buck and doe,And round the wigwam firesChanted wild songs of their wild savage sires,And danced their wild, weird dances to and fro,And wrought their beaded robes of buffalo.Day following upon day,Saw but the panther crouched upon the limb,Smooth serpents, swift and slim,Slip through the reeds and grasses, and the bearCrush through his tangled lairOf chaparral, upon the startled prey!"Listen, how I have seenFlash of strange fires in gorge and black ravine;Heard the sharp clang of steel, that came to drainThe mountain's golden vein—And laughed and sang, and sang and laughed again,Because that 'now,' I said, 'I shall be known!I shall not sit alone;But reach my hands unto my sister lands!And they? Will they not turnOld, wondering dim eyes to me, and yearn—Aye, they will yearn, in sooth,To my glad beauty, and my glad fresh youth!'"What matters though the mornRedden upon my singing fields of corn!What matters though the wind's unresting feetRipple the gold of wheat,And my vales run with wine,And on these hills of mineThe orchard boughs droop heavy with ripe fruit?When with nor sound of luteNor lyre, doth any singer chant and singMe, in my life's fair spring:The matin song of me in my young day?But all my lays and legends fade awayFrom lake and mountain to the farther hemOf sea, and there be none to gather them."Lo! I have waited long!How longer yet must my strung harp be dumb,Ere its great master come?Till the fair singer comes to wake the strong,Rapt chords of it unto the new, glad song!Him a diviner speechMy song-birds wait to teach:The secrets of the fieldMy blossoms will not yieldTo other hands than his;And, lingering for this,My laurels lend the glory of their boughsTo crown no narrower brows.For on his lips must wisdom sit with youth,And in his eyes, and on the lids thereof,The light of a great love—And on his forehead, truth!" . . .Was it the wind, or the soft sigh of leaves,Or sound of singing waters? Lo, I looked,And saw the silvery ripples of the brook,The fruit upon the hills, the waving trees,And mellow fields of harvest: saw the GateBurn in the sunset; the thin thread of mistCreep white across the Saucelito hills;Till the day darkened down the ocean rim,The sunset purple slipped from Tamalpais,And bay and sky were bright with sudden stars.
Was it the sigh and shiver of the leaves?Was it the murmur of the meadow brook,That in and out the reeds and water weedsSlipped silverly, and on their tremulous keysUttered her many melodies? Or voiceOf the far sea, red with the sunset gold,That sang within her shining shores, and sangWithin the Gate, that in the sunset shoneA gate of fire against the outer world?
For, ever as I turned the magic pageOf that old song the old, blind singer sangUnto the world, when it and song were young—The ripple of the reeds, or odorous,Soft sigh of leaves, or voice of the far sea—A mystical, low murmur, tremulousUpon the wind, came in with musk of rose,The salt breath of the waves, and far, faint smellOf laurel up the slopes of Tamalpais. . . .
"Am I less fair, am I less fair than these,Daughters of far-off seas?Daughters of far-off shores,—bleak, over-blownWith foam of fretful tides, with wail and moanOf waves, that toss wild hands, that clasp and beatWild, desolate hands above the lonely sands,Printed no more with pressure of their feet:That chase no more the light feet flying swiftUp golden sands, nor liftFoam fingers white unto their garment hem,And flowing hair of them.
"For these are dead: the fair, great queens are dead!The long hair's gold a dust the wind blowethWherever it may list;The curvëd lips, that kissedHeroes and kings of men, a dust that breath,Nor speech, nor laughter, ever quickeneth;And all the glory spedFrom the large, marvelous eyes, the light whereofWrought wonder in their hearts,—desire, and love!And wrought not any good:But strife, and curses of the gods, and flood,And fire and battle-death!Am I less fair, less fair,Because that my hands bearNeither a sword, nor any flaming brand,To blacken and make desolate my land,But on my brows are leaves of olive boughs,And in mine arms a dove!
"Sea-born and goddess, blossom of the foam,Pale Aphrodite, shadowy as a mistNot any sun hath kissed!Tawny of limb I roam,The dusks of forests dark within my hair;The far Yosemite,For garment and for covering of me,Wove the white foam and mist,The amber and the rose and amethystOf her wild fountains, shaken loose in air.And I am of the hills and of the sea:Strong with the strength of my great hills, and calmWith calm of the fair sea, whose billowy goldGirdles the land whose queen and love I am!Lo! am I less than thou,That with a sound of lyres, and harp-playing,Not any voice doth singThe beauty of mine eyelids and my brow?Nor hymn in all my fair and gracious ways,And lengths of golden days,The measure and the music of my praise?
"Ah, what indeed is thisOld land beyond the seas, that ye should missFor her the grace and majesty of mine?Are not the fruit and vineFair on my hills, and in my vales the rose?The palm-tree and the pineStrike hands together under the same skiesIn every wind that blows.What clearer heavens can shineAbove the land whereon the shadow liesOf her dead glory, and her slaughtered kings,And lost, evanished gods?Upon my fresh green sodsNo king has walked to curse and desolate:But in the valleys Freedom sits and sings,And on the heights above;Upon her brows the leaves of olive boughs,And in her arms a dove;And the great hills are pure, undesecrate,White with their snows untrod,And mighty with the presence of their God!
"Hearken, how many yearsI sat alone, I sat alone and heardOnly the silence stirredBy wind and leaf, by clash of grassy spears,And singing bird that called to singing bird.Heard but the savage tongueOf my brown savage children, that amongThe hills and valleys chased the buck and doe,And round the wigwam firesChanted wild songs of their wild savage sires,And danced their wild, weird dances to and fro,And wrought their beaded robes of buffalo.Day following upon day,Saw but the panther crouched upon the limb,Smooth serpents, swift and slim,Slip through the reeds and grasses, and the bearCrush through his tangled lairOf chaparral, upon the startled prey!
"Listen, how I have seenFlash of strange fires in gorge and black ravine;Heard the sharp clang of steel, that came to drainThe mountain's golden vein—And laughed and sang, and sang and laughed again,Because that 'now,' I said, 'I shall be known!I shall not sit alone;But reach my hands unto my sister lands!And they? Will they not turnOld, wondering dim eyes to me, and yearn—Aye, they will yearn, in sooth,To my glad beauty, and my glad fresh youth!'
"What matters though the mornRedden upon my singing fields of corn!What matters though the wind's unresting feetRipple the gold of wheat,And my vales run with wine,And on these hills of mineThe orchard boughs droop heavy with ripe fruit?When with nor sound of luteNor lyre, doth any singer chant and singMe, in my life's fair spring:The matin song of me in my young day?But all my lays and legends fade awayFrom lake and mountain to the farther hemOf sea, and there be none to gather them.
"Lo! I have waited long!How longer yet must my strung harp be dumb,Ere its great master come?Till the fair singer comes to wake the strong,Rapt chords of it unto the new, glad song!Him a diviner speechMy song-birds wait to teach:The secrets of the fieldMy blossoms will not yieldTo other hands than his;And, lingering for this,My laurels lend the glory of their boughsTo crown no narrower brows.For on his lips must wisdom sit with youth,And in his eyes, and on the lids thereof,The light of a great love—And on his forehead, truth!" . . .
Was it the wind, or the soft sigh of leaves,Or sound of singing waters? Lo, I looked,And saw the silvery ripples of the brook,The fruit upon the hills, the waving trees,And mellow fields of harvest: saw the GateBurn in the sunset; the thin thread of mistCreep white across the Saucelito hills;Till the day darkened down the ocean rim,The sunset purple slipped from Tamalpais,And bay and sky were bright with sudden stars.