PS IMPRESSIONS CALIFORNIA AND THE WEST Class _i__^J55i_3 Book _.___^^X_^ COPVRICHT DEPOSIT. MORNING, BOHEMIAN GROVE The summer encampment of tl^e Bohemian Club, San Francisco, where the famous woodland music dramas are produced. IMPRESSIONS CALIFORNIA AND THE WEST A TRIBUTE TO A LAND OF DEEDS AND SUNSHINE BY JAMES ROWBINS yjO., ^^"-t'"'l/t'VO j ^ PRIVATELY PRINTED SAN FRANCISCO, 1913 COPYRIGHT, 19U MAR -5 1914 mm SAN FRANCISCO. CALIFORNIA 9^ 0>CI,A36 28 4 TO MY MOTHER CONTENTS Prologue A Winter's Greeting . The Trail Sunset Victory The Summit In Bohemia Waldweben YosEMiTE Jingles: Gates of Time Dream Music Glaube Tis-sa-ack . . The Builders Strife . . Two Homes Upon the Hill The Great White Way Retrospection Compensation Song of the Huntsman The Conquest The Friends I Love The Bluebird Whither By the Hand of Man . Homeward Bound 9 II 12 IS 17 19 21 23 24 25 29 31 33 34 35 37 38 40 41 45 47 49 SI S3 ILLUSTRATIONS Bohemia Grove Golden Gate, San Francisco . An Ocean Wave Diana .... Mirror Lake, Yosemite Vernax Falls and Merced River Yosemite Valley Dunes of Sunset Sunset at Land's End Child at Play Lake in Golden Gate Park page Frontispiece ^ 13 V 26/ 41-^ • 55^ PROLOGUE Wit/j all the arts, 'tis well that some Excel in color, form and tune. But humbler though the roll of rhyme. What universal tongues are loosed By simple words, that fain would paint Pen piBures on the Walls of Time. Ye blush Jor errors manifest; Yet every fledgling falls to earth Ere yet its pinions bear the test. But gaining strength, it stems the breath Of the western wind and the billowy tides. And high, triumphant, free, it rides Above the gathering storm. A WINTER'S GREETING When winter comes and the air is chill And flowers bloom no more in the dell, Nor summer breezes, soft and sweet Kiss the cool waters that lave our feet, Good bye! *Sing little bird with silver wing, Sing, till thy throat shall burst with song; Fly away to the topmost bough Joyously through the morning blue, I come. I've found a land that no winter knows, Where summer reigns and no chill wind blows, Where birds and bees fill the honeysuckle vine And rippling brooks flash the bright sunshine. Bright flowers grow on the green hillside And silver clouds o'er the forests ride; Where the luscious grape and the citrus grow And no blighting frost the rosebuds know. Come to her green slopes. Bathe in her waters clear. Gaze on her mountains, Drink in her pure air. Seek thy rest in her Warm, sweet bosom fair. Oh! Come, Oh! Come. •Words and music dreamed by the author. 11 THE TRAIL THE TRAIL Yo ho! for the trail, ye maids and men From the city and countryside For the clatter of hoofs up through the glen You can hear from far and wide. Come, don your honest garments brown, Take a hitch for the steepest climb; No jewels rare, nor feathery down, Nor trappings gay will rhyme. Only with cap and saddle-bag Fitted with modest needs To lighten the load of your trusty nag — We're away, we're away. With a yip and hooray To the top, ere the dawn of day. 12 SUNSET I stood in the Western Gateway, With the sunset's golden glow Tingeing the beautiful waters there, That sparkled far below. And from out to sea as far as eye Could pierce the radiant West, Came rolling back, like gathering storms Huge breakers' foaming crests. Aslant the brilliant sunset line. Bald mountains rise between All gaunt and grey and specter-like Against the fervent screen Of space beyond, eternal Night — So soon, with magic breath To spread its kind enfolding wings, God's creatures all, beneath. The glory of the sun has set; The golden goblet's rim Has turned to pearl resplendent With reflected gold within. The brilliant colored pall of Night Draws closer ere it pale Like richest crimson blushes hid Behind a maiden's veil. 13 SUNSET But the water grows blacker and blacker As the sunset fades away, And my heart sinks deeper and deeper At the thought of the dying day — At the thought of the glorious sunshine That found not its way within, At the thought of the wasted hours, Frivolity and sin. As the sun stooped down to the waters And sealed with its gorgeous hue The kiss of Faith for a morning As beautiful, as blue; So do thou, as devoutly worship By the shrine at Nature's door; For the half of Time is not worth it — The loss of that sunset hour. ScTRO Heights, February, 1912. 14 VICTORY Pile high, high, thou pitiless wave Over thy sea of foam — Onward, invincible, crest on crest, Ever insatiable, never at rest Till the wind shall drive thee home. Crouch low, low, thou swimmer brave, Breasting the treach'rous deep Tow'ring above thee, swirling below, Piercing the dark green breakers through As a diver takes the leap. Seaward, the deep black troughs engulf Even the staunchest sail. Well for the clipper that minds her helm, Well for the skipper that keeps her trim In the teeth of the rising gale. Landward, the pitiless breakers course Thund'rous along the strand Casting their frenzied foam on high, Blinding the faithful watch near by As he crouches on the sand. 15 VICTORY Yo ho! bold swimmer, harbor's at hand Sheltering snug in the encircling land, Breast thee the tide and ride thee the wave Saving thy strength 'gainst a watery grave Where breakers roar and the foam spews high And the screaming gull tells the storm is nigh. Strike, as thy strength shall last thee through Strike, as thy skill hath taught thee how — Here at thy topmost, there at ease, Now reaching out in the fresh'ning breeze. Mount thee strong on the last high crest And away! Courage, bold swimmer, 'Tis won. The Beach in a Gale. 16 THE SUMMIT THE SUMMIT A mountain ranges high among the western hills. From my study window, clear enough defined 'Gainst white fog bank, shimmering in the sun, I see it and the heart within me yearns To scale its heights, to Hft me clear Of all these mediocre clods of earth — This senseless plane of senseless deeds and things That we, not knowihg what we do, term Life. And strange enough that Life should seem so drear, So unromantic, of all things bereft That we do yearn for, till Life's springs, With bitter tears o'erflowed, becomes A desert waste — can it be so? Or do we lack a vision, omniscient In its source — a God endowed wisdom — That doth clothe each humble clod of earth In Nature's beauty — that we think vile. I set my face to the heights — With toiling steps through sinking sands and morass Bramble strewn, o'er rocks and fallen trees. Hemmed in by Circumstance, by Chance escaped To loftier levels — ah, one fleeting glimpse; How sweet a heart balm. What courage lends To flagging steps. Onward, onward, friend, Nor let thy gaze forsake the ultimate aim 'Tis, given thee, thy duty — forswear it not. Impatiently I seek to pierce the gloom Of darkened forest; not one friendly ray Rewards my useless strivings toward the Light. I fail, I sink; within its cruel gaol. This mountain fastness binds me to itself Nor guidance lends, its darkened portals veiled. Ah! God, is this the spirit that I set me forth? Well, let it be — my flagon's depths, Once drained, will set me free. 17 THE SUMMIT A troubled dream — of ghastly precipice — Unwary footsteps near. The fatal step — The screams and clawings on the yielding air And then — A friendly twig scarce rooted on the ledge Looks up and spends its midget strength to stop The fall. A dream indeed, and yet 'twere true; 'Twixt Life and Death, the smallest of God's creatures Often come — enough, faint heart, enough. Upon the lofty summit at last I stand. Be kind. Oh God, be kind — forgive. I see that which my streaming eyes may tell But not to halting language half express — The secret heart-grip — ah, the lovely pain Of fulfilled yearnings — now I see again. A vision comes to me long years denied. A vision of this topsy-turvy sphere Wherein doth all things claim reality. And of their former fancies now divest themselves. I see the essence of this Universe Expressed in every living thing and mute. No stone has turned upon the mountain top But by the hand of Him decreed, foretold. Its cosmic movements, not for human mind, May speak a mystic language; yet through Contemporary time it speaks our own And sounds the faint sweet rhythm of the spheres To ears attuned, to souls that rise, untrammelled, To the Heights. How beautiful doth all things then appear. Not even the shrinking flower escapes our eye. As in the scheme of things some flowers excel In brightness, some in fragrance, all possess Some spark of beauty. So all things That make of Nature, the substance and the form Appear to hold within, a spot of color bright To frame complete the universal canvas of my dreams. Tamalpais July, 1912. 18 IN BOHEMIA IN BOHEMIA Nay, thou knowest not Bohemia, not With all thy cursed ducats canst thou buy One stone within the mighty parapet Upreared by toiling hands now clasped In deep fraternal love — nor yet Canst hope, its sacred fastnesses to pierce Till Mammon's taint hath fled thee and thy hand Extendeth with thy heart to help to serve. No frigid form enslaves Bohemia's halls, No sterile phrase belies her greetings warm; No prowling wolves of selfishness, deceit Can steal within this magic circle lit With flaming swords that shall ever burn Till men shall solve the riddle of Fraternity. Know thou that but one master-key Rolls back the sacred portals of Bohemia — A key wrought in the forges of men's hearts Of fairest fibres, strong and then refined And polished on the buffers of men's minds. A gentle Muse sits at the temple gates And holds this key for all her devotees. And blest, indeed, is he whose kindred soul Finds opportunity in her quickening caress As, through the magic password of her grace, He enters fair Bohemia. BoHEMMN Club, San Francisco, 1913. 19 ^ DIANA. iSy Haig Patigan Designed for The Atonement of Pan, Bohemian Grove play, 1913. WALDWEBEN WALDWEBEN A maze of pillared grandeur In the stillness of the night; A gentle hush as breathless As the pure and cold starlight That reaches from the mystic depths Of the empyrean above And casts the ghostly mantle Of the Eternal, Infinite. A shadowy dome encircling Its mighty pillared towers; A swaying pendent curtain merging All the peaceful hours. Only the giant arms of earth Uplifted unto heaven To span the magic distances Within these titan bowers. Dost thou hear the muted music Of this slumbrous forest glade With the ghostly moonlight wavering 'Round the shadow that is made Where thou standest, bared to heaven, With thy inner soul transfixed By the potent mystic language Of this silent nebulous shade? Ye Titans of these sacred groves Raising to heaven thy mighty shafts Unbent by winds, unscathed by fire, Rooted fast in these earthen depths — Doth aeons spell thy span of life, And is thy heart of hearts, within This very rugged bark contained, A talisman of the birth of Time? I touch — and all my being thrills With the magic of the centuries. 21 WALDWEBEN Give me thy strength giant tree; Straight as thy shaft Let my vision be; Deep as thy roots Be my soul inspired Then may the drums of Time Roll on, roll on. Bohemian Grove, August, 1912. 22 THE GATES OF TIME YOSEMITE JINGLES THE GATES OF TIME A placid pool of limpid blue All roundabout enwreathed With a hundred colors of the dell And shades of varied hue. Or is't a magic mirrored screen Within whose crystal depths The heart of Nature seems revealed In blue and verdant green? What skillful hand that margin drew To bridge the nebulous space 'Tween infinite depth and infinite height — Vast realms of limpid blue. Ah, could I cross the mystic line And gaze behind the veil Where Time meets Time and once again Dream music rings divine. Mirror Lake. y 23 DREAM MUSIC DREAM MUSIC Till yesterday, my eyes were blind With deep illusioned visions of the vale — That mystic vale of strength and peace That links today with dreadful aeons past. I wander through its moonlit mazes sweet With odors of the summer; purling streams Their gentle harmonies upraise, and oft The rustle of the pendent bough bespeaks The presence of some li\^ng, moving thing Disturbed in its slumbers — dreams perhaps Of yet another world — who knows? And still I gaze — Uplifted to the awful heights that seem The very walls of endless Time upreared, While softly, breathless, still, the silver light Steals with ever lengthening shadows through the vale. Oh, gentle shades of virgin night — Enfold me in thy silver-winged hours. Mine eyes are dim with gazing, and my soul, Fast fettered, yet borne strangely up, Would scale the ethereal heights and see Eternal wonder-worlds — would burst the bonds That tie me to this sordid mill of tears And soar upon the music of the spheres. Oh, that I might, on muted strings, enthral The wondrous music of this wondrous night And, high upon ascendent harmonies, My unleashed soul its winged flight pursue To pierce the ethereal shadows of the night And search the corners of infinitude, Borne ever on morn's golden shafts of Light. Stni softly, breathless, steals The ever lengthening shadows of the vale. YosEMTTE By Moonlight. 24 GLAUBE GLAUBE Listen to the merry river Rushing onward to the sea — How it laughs and how it tumbles, How it gurgles merrily. Rocky bed makes Httle hind'rance To its never ceasing flow — With a laugh it dances 'round them For it always seems to know That, whatever the obstruction, Rock or bank or fallen tree — By its twisting, wriggling, squirming. It can always get to sea. But sometimes this merry river Seems forgetful of its mood That today makes it delightful As the charm of field and wood. Then its soul is wild and frenzied; Then its lashing spume casts high In the madness of its plunging To the depths of sea and sky. 'Tis the awful pack and pressure Of the snow-fields drained afar; 'Tis the wild descent and impact Of the cascades mighty power. 'Tis the wild rush down the canyon Now confined 'twixt cruel walls That has filled its soul with terror And dispelled the woodland calls. 25 VERNAL FALLS AND THE MERCED RIVER Yosemite Valley GLAUBE But the friendly sun of summer Gently smooths its troubled way, Tames its wild heart to the beating Of a peaceful slumbering day. Oh! the depths of human passion, Anguish, longings, hopes and tears; Would this summer sun could waken Sweet content for future years. Dost thou think this merry river Ever tires of ceaseless flow — Lashing, splashing, curling, purling Leaping far to pools below. Or that ever one doubt wakens. In its wild tumultous breast, That the evening of the lifetime Will bring Love and Peace and Rest. Merced River, August, 1912 27 YOSEMITE VALLEY IN SPRING- TIME The great peak of Tis-sa-ack (Half Dome), is just discernible above the fog bank. s TIS-SA-ACK TIS-SA-ACK Thou, Goddess of the riven hills — I gaze upon thy shrouded form, Thy temples bathed in the breath of the sea Thy feet bedewed with the tears of the land, What message bearest thou! Dost cover thy face for the deeds of men Or glories of thy people gone? And yet, with proud unbended head, Thou reignest. Goddess of the mystic vale. Unmindful of the winter blasts Or swollen torrents at thy feet. . Disdainful of the centuries, Yet always in thy regal grace Communing with thy worshippers In language of the lips of Time. Thou reignest still, O matchless one Chaste Goddess of the riven hills. Tb-sa-ack, Indian for Half Dome, Yosemite. 29 THE DUNES OF SUNSET San Francisco THE BUILDERS THE BUILDERS Along the trackless wastes Creep mystic shadows, golden tipped. As harbingers of night they sing Strange melodies oft sweetly dissonant With the warm impassioned heart-throbs Of the dying day. The serried dunes, O'er flecked with countless wind-born rivulets, Roll gently on from out the crimson west. Incessant movement marks their restless years. The immobile earth, entranced by the beauty Of the scene, reflects the rhythmic movement Of the wave, urged on by sea-born breezes Strength perfumed. Within these shadow worlds. The air seems redolent with mystery; Except for the murmur of the wind And roar of surf, no voice is heard; .; No living thing exists — no home of bird l,j^-.^ ^ Or beast, not even one tender blade of grass *^' To play its midget part within the great Symphonic choral of the spheres. The strings are hushed; No longer surge the golden passion-chords Of twilight glow. The darkHng labyrinth r Impends; only the pounding of the surf ■ To break the gloom — that swells and dies again I Enmeshed in foam. 31 THE BUILDERS Mysterious silence — and yet I seem to hear the hammer blows of Time. Beneath my hand, the vibrant earth seems full With melody of wondrous strange portent — Before my straining eyes, there seem to pass In vague uncertain movement, visions rare Of a wondrous thing — a City Beautiful Upreared where last I saw but dreary wastes And wandering dunes. 'Tis night. And through long eucalyptus shadows pale, The winter moon now threads its silvery way Engrossing all this slumbering wonder-world. This topsy-turvy clime all summer hued, With liquid diadem. Can this be true — This metamorphic change from virgin dunes To peaceful homes and gardens, flower-strewn; The terraced slopes that yield an ample vision Of the West, and all but hid in depths Of trellised vine and rose and poppies gold That seems to draw within their radiant cups The essence of a thousand golden sunsets? Ah! Enough of clanging wars and marts and men, Of seething mills, Hell's cauldrons, city's din. Could we sever from them all our few short years And shove them in the Past with all their tears, Would we not revel in the joys of sea and sky. Of hill and mountain-top where star-drops lie, Or drowse within our garden flowered deep. While Jime for cold Decembers hostage keeps. Tis then the strife of men and pelf is hushed — The Builder's work triumphant at the last. The Dunes of Sctnset, San Francisco, November, igi2. 32 STRIFE STRIFE TO THE SELFISH AND WILFUL PERVERTORS OF MEN'S MINDS With bristling mien and clenched fist He roareth up and down — Black hatred in his heart unleashed, The venom of a mind diseased That reapeth where 'tis sown; A thousand daggers raised behind, A thousand curses hurled afar, A thousand lies to warp the Truth Enough to fool the blind. Is there no citadel that's safe From all this mockery? Are Truth and Justice, Innocence, An upright life, a country's flag Naught else but carrion prey? Why rest ye in supine content With ravin stalking wild? Shall all the hands of Time estop. The busy wheels of Industry, And fertile fields be seared to waste All ruined by this bastard child — Sired by a monstrous Hate, Born in Evil's unloved dens, Reared in Desolation's grime And doomed to Strife? 33 TWO HOMES UPON THE HILL The one — a simple cottage home Deep set in the garden bloom No strident tone disturbs its peace Nor vulgar eye, nor profane lip. Avaunt! thou hovering spirit gloom Of Mammon's greed. The other — ah, but mark it well — Doth not its chaste and glistening front Shine brilliant in the sun. 34 THE GREAT WHITE WAY THE GREAT WHITE WAY THOUGHTS ON HENNER's "mAGDALEN" I cannot think them all so vile — This vast bedizened crowd that throngs The blazing strand — these poor And painted creatures, lost of men And God except the one last bond Of conscious error, wrought by Fate, The purpose of her will fulfilled. Ye pity, yes and scorn perhaps With brow uplift and bated breath. But canst not give a helping hand. From bulging larder, not a crust Canst spare to save the final plunge To blackened depths, the knife, the shot. Perhaps thy heel once left imprint Upon the sacred ground thou feignest, Hypocrite! 35 a: 2 RETROSPECTION RETROSPECTION FROM THE HILLTOPS AT SDTSTSET, GOLDEN GATE. Deep in the pitying bosom of the sea, Ebbs fast the glory of a dpng day. And on the giant battlements That guard these glowing portals of the night, Another niche appears, full chiseled, deep. How many fateful names enregistered In burning letters on that scroll of Time. But what of it — What matters that The chastened page be rudely blotted out By hands that ever faltered as they wrote; That ere the cruel ink was scarcely dry, Hot tears erased the shameful entry? Nay the thing has passed And deep within the glowing embers lies The substance — and the form Ethereal shapes assume that seem, withal, On golden pinions to have taken flight And vanished with the spirits of the night. 37 COMPENSATION COMPENSATION WHERE MORNING BESTS ACHIEVEMENT, THERE FIGHT I. Has the spice of Life, its savour lost Amid the reeking din And its pleasures turned to charnels Of dishonor, shame and sin? Has the fresh warm morning sunshine Of the hilltop lost its charm Or the restless surge of ocean Filled thy soul with deep alarm? Does the woodland's gentle calling Fail to lure thy weary way To its peaceful, friendly shadows At the cradle of the day? Then — work, till the sunbeams Slant across the sky, Till the task is fulfilled And the cool of evening's nigh. Work, till thy pulses Thrill to merry tunes With the royal blood of manhood Chanting magic runes. Work, though the glowering Clouds of failure pall With snarling hounds of discord Bent upon thy fall. 38 COMPENSATION Does the ocean heed the pebble Careless cast by wanton hand, Or the mountain fear the sandstorm Blown afar from desert land? Does the golden orbit waver In its endless, changeless way By the senseless exhortations Of the worshippers that pray? Or the petal, ere unfolding In the bosom of the Spring List the dreary wastes of Winter To fulfill its blossoming? Oh! the golden hours of hfetime TwLxt the pale of rest and play When a man works out his soul-force On the anvil of God's day. When the dross is stricken off him, When his arm is raised in might. When his heart is strong and humble And his eyes shine full with Light. Then his destiny rewards him; Then the clouds of black despair With a sudden evolution Quick dispel the anxious care. Stand aloof! ye clods of failure, Stand ye back and watch and pray That your sluggish veins may tingle Once again — as in olden day. That your freighted soul take courage, That your feeble hand find strength. That your eye may speak its freedom When the Conqueror comes your way. 39 SONG OF THE HUNTSMAN SONG OF THE HUNTSMAN Oh! the bird is on the wing, dear! He rose with the morning dew And speeds o'er downs and hills and towns To bear my love to you. Then fare him on his way, friends Nor strike not the cruel blow As he soars along on the wings of song And dips in the limpid glow. For his heart is as light as mine, dear And his song but a promise true That he'll search throughout the world, dear To bear my love to you. 40 THE CONQUEST There came to me one day, . un thought, A picture of two children fair; It stands before me as I write — A glimpse of two bright httle lives In lands far distant, where the sun Sinks down to sea, with gorgeous hue, Behind a bristUng coast. The broad Pacific lies before— A chained giant held in leash, And to the East a rugged range Of lofty peaks o'er-topped in silent Majesty — Mount Rainier — That stately pile so chastely crowned With everlasting snows. 41 THE CONQUEST At Christmas time the message came. With wond'rings, I cut the knot — That magic key of hopes and fears, And found — a bit of bristol board. But what dear memories aroused This simple hkeness of two friends So far away, yet near! A girl and boy I see at play Idling the golden hours through; No work nor care their lives enmesh, Except the pot of jam runs dry And finger exercises pall And seven to bed, and other dread things The bogey man invents. I met her first upon the stair. To her I was like other men From out the dreadful wilderness Of roaring marts and flaming fires, Of wheels and whistles, smoke and din, Of cabs and cars, and clanging bells. And ghouls and goblins. To her the tender years were yet Unspent; where life encircles 'round A simple home, with vines and trees And climbing roses, all too large To make a nosegay of. And then There was a cherry tree so high It almost touched the stars. Alas, what sad mistake I made; For now-a-days young men do need An introduction to a maid Before they have a right to plant Resounding kisses on the spot Reserved for others, especially When whiskers interfere. 42 THE CONQUEST In vain I pouted, coaxed, and prayed; The little maid would not unbend, Her big blue eyes would search me out From 'round her mother's sheltering chair, Or safely 'tween the table legs, She'd weigh me in her balance keen And always find me wanting. But soon I found a vantage-point, And hugged it close; for all is fair In love and war, and honorable my Intentions were. Tho' sad it was To have to play a trick so bold Upon a maid of tender years, She yielded to temptation. For love of gold 'twas brought her low, And, in one fateful moment, she Undid the latch Pandora spied When curiosity o'ercame Her maiden prudence and released A thousand devils. 'Twas, in short. Four shiny silver dollars. These sealed her doom, and I, Not slow to take advantage of 't. With ghoulish glee would drop them down First one, then two, then three, then four, Then one again and two, three, four. And one— but she did not perceive The foul trick nor trickster. The battle's won and we are friends, Fast friends; what difference the means Whereby 'twas done, so long as I May claim her love, and reign withal. Within her childish heart, as one Redeemed of faults, still manifest, But nevertheless redeemed. 43 THE CONQUEST And now her "bruwer" kisses her On that same spot and dries her tears When bears appear upon the stairs To growl at Httle Frances' fears And big black dogs come blustering up All mouths and teeth to eat her Jip And vines lay wait to trip her feet As she walks bravely down the street And bees buzz 'round her golden hair For honey-cups in flowers fair. A gallant knight to her must be And I would too could I be he. God bless 'em both, but you and I Must never, until years go by. Reveal the secret of the trick I turned — for 'twas just in the nick Of time to save me from defeat. And put my plans to full retreat; God grant she'll stay me true. Chicago, December 25, iqii. 44 THE FRIENDS I LOVE THE FRIENDS I LOVE I have a little book-stand near my bed To snatch a moment's pleasure from each night Before reluctant slumber bids me fold The wings of fancy 'till the morning breaks. Of all the precious volumes on my shelves, These little treasure-ships still hold the power To turn my face away from cares and fears And set my sails, full tilt, to slumber-land. For in the silent calm of midnight hours, When the soul of man is weary and forspent With battles and with strivings toward that end Pre-destined as the heritage of Fate, 'Tis then the eyes strain upward to the dome Of Heaven for some faint gleam of friendly light, For some sweet drop of heavenly vintage poured By angels from the golden bowl of night. And then it is I turn me to my friends. Mute friends, all silent through the livelong day. But what a message do they bear to me When I can loose their tongues with friendly touch. Between the covers of these little books There's writ, in fiery letters, man's destiny. The gamut of emotion runs its course Fun, frolic, fancy, love, stark tragedy. Each pretty volume, silent, beckons me For special ministration to my mood, With fond caress I hand them gently down And turn the fingered pages, one by one. 45 THE FRIENDS I LOVE Ah! here June roses, sweet, do bloom and blow, And here, the fancies of some childish heart; There, the smooth turning of the wheel of rhyme And then again strange pictures from my book of dreams. Then to my heart of hearts straight go the shafts Of sweet impassioned utterance, till my tears Do blind me, as golden winged messengers From some far distant throne of radiant light. Tis then, oh then, I bow me humbly down In fervent worship at the jeweled shrine Of Genius, Art — call it what you will — Inspired thought, God-given, Man-despised. Grand harmonies, played upon the keys of Heaven That lift my very soul to outer spheres Of passion, rage, sweet ecstasy of tears And leave my soul refined and calm and mute. O thou, who dost scofif at tender words. And, cursing, spurn the hand that heals thy wounds, God give thee grace, that, through the impending gloom, Thy darkened eyes at last shall see the dawn. God grant that, by some wond'rous alchemy. Thy heart of hearts may guide thy erring feet And fling the portals wide for smiles and tears Ah! that were most beautiful, indeed. Chicago, iqii. 46 THE BLUEBIRD THE BLUEBIRD REFLECTIONS ON MAETERLINCK'S IMMORTAL DRAMA OF HAPPINESS Along the shiftings sands of Time By many founts, in many climes, I search for that one thing most dear The Wine of Joy, sweet ecstasy of tears. How oft, within my very grasp, It seemed to flutter, then to gasp Away its precious heart-throbs — still It lay — poor creature of my will. Is it the blighting touch of Care, Of Selfishness, untaught Desire, Of morbid cravings for the flower That withers in the passing hour? The rose that on the hillside grew, Blushing red in the morning dew. Withers and pales in the noon-day glare From the fervent heat, and the breathless air. Ah, cruel, that a hand of mine Should kill the thing it holds divine; That what my very soul doth crave Should vanish in my presence, save The perfume of sweet memory's flower That lingers as it pales, The hours. Of Time in anxious sands depart While, mumbling of Life and Soul and Heart, Do we, in stupid epigrams besot. Still flounder in the swales of Thought. 47 THE BLUEBIRD Ah, give me of that simpler joy, That sweet estate when girl and boy In freedoms play, bereft of care, With youths' bright flowers scattered there. Could I retain that simpler grace Of childhood's manner, form and face And see with eyes unsullied, through The wonders of my dreams, come true. Not in the jungles of Desire, Not in the race for Gold and Power Not in the clash of arms nor blare Of brazen trumpets' bold fanfare. A golden chalice holdest thou Before my lips to quaff — my brow Thy gentle hands doth press And soothe the pain with kind caress. Oh, Happiness indeed, untaught. By Fashion's sterile hand unwrought, The subtle wafture from thy breast Now rends the Veil — at last, at last. 48 WHITHER WHITHER Has the glory of the sunset hue No significance except A momentary fascination In rose and gold and blue — A wonder work of a Master Hand Endowed with living glow, Spread on the canvas of the seas And framed from land to land? I wonder, as I stand a-top The loftiest vantage-point And drink the luscious goblet full Till not a single drop Remains to cloy the quickened sense When the Spirit shall have fled That gave it color, life and form, But left its recompense. No purer draught from Nature's store, With bounteous treasures filled. Than this deep draught of golden wine. 'Tis quaffed, and lo! before My vision steals the roseate glow Of evening, ere the sun Its golden rimmed wall of sea Has scarcely simk below. The aureate wreath in the western sky Resolves into limpid blue; Only the mountains, tier on tier, In silent grandeur lie — Grim guardians of the Gates of Night Whose mystic depths engulf Their rugged ramparts, run to earth Beyond the pale of sight. 49 WHITHER Friends, can all this splendor be But a riff in the Sands of Time, As a feather soars on the billowy air Till the wind dies out to sea? Does the silent tear down the mantling cheek Tell of the heart's warm glow As it sinks itself in the infinite depths Of beauteous Nature? Speak! Ye lovers of the sky and sea. Tell me, can such thing be As the eternal nothingness of all That seems so beautiful to me; Nor aught of thine, nor aught of mine We treasure ere depart Shall change a hair's-breadth in the Book Of Destiny — one line? 'Golden Gate," March 30, 1912. 50 BY THE HAND OF MAN BY THE HAND OF MAN In troubled dream, another vision came Of whirling through the vast and treach'rous space Of Night. With thundrous roar, We clave the blinding nebulae of mist; As lightning, flashed the suns of other spheres, And still the Arrow drives in sinuous flight Into the midnight gloom, its guiding star Two lines of steel, hung on the western rim. The Bow has spoken; still the Arrow drives Unspent. As fiery steed, it chafes the bit. With restless pantings and snorting fire, In ever longer strides it reaches out Consuming distance in its ravenous speed. Is there no helm or helmsman to this steed All bone and sinew, wrought of steel and fire, This mighty maddened Titan of the Night? The vision changed; a gallant company Of souls fare westward. In oblivion Of sleep they dream of peaceful woodlands, Storied halls. Doth hear, fair sleeper. The roar and grind beneath thy downy bed? Doth see the hand of Death clutch at thy throat, With baffled shriek return and ever again To wreak his vengeful purpose? Does the Arrow ever waver in its flight? What if the Bow had snapped, or hand that drew The powerful thongs had weakened at the last. But no. The ever watchful eye of Genius holds The flame tipped Arrow to its gleaming path. Upon its pulse, the skillful hand is laid That curbs its restless wayward spirit's might And cheats Death's spectre of its choicest prey. 51 . BY THE HAND OF MAN I see the guiding Genius at the helm; The lurid Vast his piercing eye foretells. Mid teeming ruin and destruction schooled, He whistles jauntily away the hours Of Death, swift Death, and as the morn Its first rose tinted hues has spread. He brings the panting Titan to its goal. Dost thou, fair traveller, ere think, When restless with thy petty strife, Of him who holds thy priceless life Within his hand, as snow drops sink And melt and vanish? To him, tis loss or gain erased; To you, grim cataclysms faced — Beware the spending of thy Hour. Overland. 52 HOMEWARD BOUND HOMEWARD BOUND If ever, when the day rolls 'round To cross again this continent, Thou feelst the weight of heavy hours And sleep invites to sweet content, May mem'ries rise of other days When this same continent you crossed Within that wee corral of friends Together by good fortune tossed. Thou 'It chuckle at the scene revived When Finnegan, "Our Hero" prim, Didst roll his proud and shapely form Upon the floor as in babydom. When modest Richards through the chair His animated form didst thread, And blinking Steiger's comely bulk Performed the light fantastic tread. When mighty Bivens found a point Upon that treach'rous shaky floor To balance him while speeding through The air at seventy miles an hour. And Uncle Crusty Brown didst strain His face all out of shape, and why? — • To keep from smiling or from speech While cruel minutes ambled by. But even when, with blushing pride, Did Jones recite the homely lay Of Mary and her lovely lamb, There still remains one memory: 53 HOMEWAIID BOUND Supremest moment — when the lot To proud "Superba" lastly fell; Weep not that in the hour of need No guardian angel came to tell Poor Handlon of his P's and Q's To start his valedictory; That 'neath the spell of woman's smiles Fell our hero of Compartment "A." * Whene'er the scales of Justice tilt So far aside that ne'er again Their primal equipoise it seems Can scarcely hope to soon regain; 'Tis then that circumstances seem To find a way to have things changed. Unlooked for pitfalls gape and yawn — 'Tis then the Fates have been avenged. ♦Gamblers' paradise LAKE IN GOLDEN GATE PARK