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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
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 4 
 
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 Figs 
 from California 
 
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 Printed by" 
 
 Lederer, Street & Zeus Company 
 
 Berkeley, California 
 
 1922 
 
 ^^^Wi^^^^^WWWW^^^'^'^^S^WWWW^
 
 COPYRIGHT 1922 
 BY W. W. LYMAN
 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 HIS little book has been 
 made up of poems selected 
 from the work of mem- 
 bers of a class in verse- 
 uriting which I had the 
 pleasure of conducting at 
 the University of California in the Fall 
 of IQ2I . I have considered that all the 
 poems appearing here have interest and 
 some of them distinction, and I have 
 thought that their publication would 
 serve both to give a characteristic ex- 
 ample of the vivid poetic imagination 
 discernible among the young people 
 of California, and also to afford, 
 perhaps, a further stimulus 
 to its expression. 
 
 W. W. Lyman. 
 
 Berkeley, California, 
 May, 1922. 
 
 576512 
 
 LISRARf
 
 Calijoniia Autumn 
 .♦. 
 
 The new green shore where we camped in Spring 
 Is crisp and brown; the dry stalks fling 
 Their winged seeds; the withered weeds 
 Around our blackened fire-stones cling. 
 
 The stream where we watched the swallows play 
 Has ceased to laugh — it has run away 
 And left a pool still clear, still cool; 
 A lonely blue on the gravel's grey. 
 
 The willow where the linnets sing 
 Is now the only unchanged thing 
 That dares the death in Autumn's breath, 
 And waits again another Spring. 
 
 Vernon R. King. 
 
 [4]
 
 Autumn 
 
 ♦ 
 
 High in the mist-chilled air, 
 Scudding, the wild ducks fly; 
 
 Drawing a wavering line 
 Faint on the autumn sky. 
 
 Gleaming, the far-off lake 
 Widens before their flight — 
 
 Suddenly whirring they drop 
 Into the dusk of night. 
 
 G. Votau Mills. 
 
 Summer 
 
 O Flower-of-the-corn, 
 Why do you hang 
 Silken tassels that stir 
 In the golden sun? 
 
 You know, 
 
 When the sun turns southward. 
 Your brown stalks will be piled 
 Under the harvest moon. 
 
 Harriet McLear Hall. 
 
 [5]
 
 Autumn 
 
 Autumn Is a wanton maid, 
 With brown shoulders bare, 
 
 And flash of scarlet barberries 
 Tangled in her hair. 
 
 Gypsy-eyed and sandal-footed, 
 Crimson-lipped she came, 
 
 Kissed the summer-listless earth 
 Into mounting flame; 
 
 Swept In mocking courtesy low 
 
 Her ragged loveliness, 
 Laughing, fled, and left the earth 
 
 To gray-ashed dreariness. 
 
 Marion Ye at man. 
 
 '*Dying Summer* 
 ♦^ 
 
 The fallen leaves in shining sheaves 
 Are caught with ropes of gold; 
 Upon the hill, the winds grow chill 
 That once blew warm and bold. 
 
 A flower dies 'neath turquoise skies, 
 Its drifting leaves are red; 
 And golden bees through listless trees 
 Hum "Summer soon is dead." 
 
 Mary A. Weyse. 
 
 [6]
 
 Foreboding 
 
 The white-fanged waves mouthe hungrily 
 
 And mutter, each to each, 
 Weird, garbled tales of mystery 
 
 On the shadow-blackened beach. 
 
 Passing strange are the tales they tell, 
 Strange are the sights they've seen, 
 
 For one has watched a drifting spar 
 With sea-weed cordage green, 
 
 And one has found dull gold half-hid 
 
 In sea-mud's slimy brown, 
 And one has seen a white dead face 
 
 Full forty fathoms down. 
 
 Now the strangled wind no longer stirs 
 Through the stark driftwood gray, 
 
 And silently in swift-winged flight 
 The sea-birds glide away. 
 
 The peering face of an ominous moon 
 Strains pale through a stifling cloud, 
 
 While the wave that saw the dead man's face 
 Is talking over loud. 
 
 Marion Ye at man. 
 
 [7]
 
 The Kelp-Gatherers 
 <- 
 
 The fisher- folk of Finisterre, 
 
 Of simple faith and calloused hands, 
 Go sailing out from wind-swept sands 
 
 In seasons slack and weather fair, 
 Along the Rade before the breeze 
 
 To search the shores of La Conquet — 
 And cheerful bring at twilight grey 
 
 The ribboned kelp from out the seas. 
 
 Upon the beach in evening light 
 
 Pass to and fro the toiling men — 
 The kelp-fire on the shore burns bright, 
 
 It rises, sinks, then dies again; 
 While on the headland, gaunt and bare, 
 
 The ancient Celtic dolmens stand. 
 And see below, like shifting sand. 
 
 The fisher-folk of Finisterre. 
 
 G. P'otau Mills. 
 
 The Desert 
 
 * 
 
 A giant cactus waves its grotesque hand 
 
 To black ravens 
 
 That over a putrid carcass croak. 
 
 A wagon-wheel lies half buried 
 
 In drifting sand. 
 
 G. Votati Mills. 
 
 [8]
 
 **El Evangelistd* — The Letter-Writer 
 
 ♦ 
 
 When doves in the belfry chant their praise 
 And the bells, that rust tints green, 
 With thumps of the gong against quivering steel 
 Shake on the roof their matin phrase, 
 
 You come to the arcade encircling the square, 
 
 The plaza, the soul of the Spanish town; 
 
 And you sit on a chair of thongs and reeds 
 
 At a table the sun has warped through the years 
 
 And you shine the pens that your inks embrown. 
 
 An Indian shuffles his sandaled feet 
 And squats on the stool at your side, 
 To murmur a note to his wounded son 
 While he tenderly, quietly cries. 
 
 A girl with the night entrapped In her hair. 
 And lips that ripple with the rhythm of love. 
 Like a butterfly glides and stops at your desk 
 To send to her lover in far Yucatan 
 The leaves of a rose with the scent of her kiss, 
 The word he awaits, and her prayer for their bliss. 
 
 You look in their eyes and you see through that lens 
 The embers of grief, the flames of delight 
 Of the sons of the Aztecs who live in a world 
 Of thoughts and of dreams unchiseled by pens. 
 
 [<>]
 
 You grow old as you read from the faces of bronze 
 The story of man; the struggles, the sighs 
 To phrase the unphrased that floats in the heart, 
 To utter the self that unexpressed dies. 
 "Oh, for a pen that would carve out my thought!" 
 Is the prayer that your eyes from their eyes have 
 caught. 
 
 When the fleeting swallow lances the shades 
 And the fireflies flicker like golden beads, 
 You have locked your papers and pens for the night 
 And you muse on your chair of thongs and reeds. 
 
 Herbert M. Sein. 
 
 tt 
 
 El SoV the Pyramid 
 
 You sit in the splendor of silence now; 
 Your children are hushed and gone. 
 Out of the earth they made you rise. 
 Now in the earth their empire lies. 
 And you — you are left alone. 
 
 You were born in the soul of the Toltec kings. 
 When their drums and flutes were loud; 
 And men were cranes to hoist your stones 
 And blood and mortar were mixed with groans 
 Till you grew high and proud. 
 
 [10]
 
 They crowned your summit a shrine to the Sun, 
 And in crystalline porphyry made 
 His image to serve and adore through the years; 
 With thousands of priests and millions of tears, 
 To exalt the grim victor of shade. 
 
 The sacred processions would fill for you 
 
 The altars of igneous stone 
 
 With human flesh to feed the flame, 
 
 And drums to thunder and laud your name; 
 
 Yet now — you are left alone. 
 
 When dawn drops smoothly a veil of rose 
 On your untempled mossy crest, 
 And the breeze shakes down the drops of dew, 
 I think they are tears that roll from you 
 To the tombs where your children rest. 
 
 In the dim-light of dawn you are weary and lone; 
 
 Your soul has wept in its sleep; 
 
 You miss your children, the feast and king; 
 
 The glories of empire your stones would sing. . . . 
 
 El Sol ! you are great ; you weep. 
 
 Herbert M. Sein. 
 
 [II]
 
 Siberia 
 
 Siberia is a land 
 No one knows; 
 Iron the frost, 
 Endless the snows. 
 
 Siberia has green fields 
 And rainbow plains, 
 White flowers for frost, 
 And silver rains. 
 
 White birch for snow. 
 Birds, and warm sun — 
 And miles of daffodils 
 Where rivers run. 
 
 Siberia is a land 
 No one knows — 
 There flowers live again 
 After the snows. 
 
 Harriet McLear Hall. 
 
 [12]
 
 To Those Who Believe in Immortality 
 
 World — shouting, screaming, crooning, crying — 
 
 You are a great jazz orchestra. 
 
 And World, I have a ticket to your show, 
 
 For I have Life. 
 
 Sometimes you whine and crash a brassy song of war. 
 
 Sometimes you softly cry the shrill, sad solo of a 
 
 lonely bird. 
 Sometimes you croon the harmony of wind and sand 
 Huddling together on the desert. 
 World, I count myself In luck 
 To have a ticket to your show. 
 But World, there are some among your audience 
 Who tell me that this ticket. Life, is good 
 For yet another show, more brilliant still than yours. 
 They say when I am ushered from your door 
 That I will flaunt forth through infinity 
 And roam across the silver-studded sky; 
 That I shall live as long as time 
 And play with opal-fiery stars 
 And ride the ether on a comet's back. . . . 
 But World, I'm glad these Someones do not know. 
 They only spin their idle yarns. 
 For if I knew that I would beat for aeons with the 
 
 stars. 
 Your music. World, would not be half so grand. 
 
 Roberta HoUoway. 
 
 [13]
 
 One Milestone 
 
 ♦ 
 
 To believe smugly, till my eighteenth year, 
 That right was right, and never could be wrong, 
 That God was God, and sinning was a sin. 
 That day and night were each twelve hours long — 
 This was I taught, and lauded for believing: 
 These creeds I stole; men honored me for thieving. 
 
 One friend there was who laughed at these my creeds. 
 And then came men who said that they were wrong. 
 And last came Life itself to prove to me 
 How weak were all my idols I deemed strong. 
 This year I learned that right is often wrong, 
 That God is nothing but a man-made thing, 
 That day is short, and night is thrice as long. 
 That sin means not to protest, but to cringe. 
 
 Life took unto himself the clean, blank page 
 That was my life, and wrote these things for me, 
 And they who taught me creeds so long ago 
 By scorn of my new life, trumpet me free. 
 
 Ermine B. Wheeler. 
 
 [14]
 
 Range-Free ! 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Oh, were my love a fragile thing, 
 too delicate to bruise or bare; 
 
 Too tender to express in words, 
 
 too poignant-hued a flower to wear, 
 
 I'd crush and keep it pressed away 
 memorialing. 
 
 But, since my love is bold and bluff, 
 exuberant, assertive, positive, 
 
 Strong enough in its crude youth 
 to crush, of course I'll let it live 
 
 And range unbridled, uncorralled, 
 and wild and rough. 
 
 E. H. Rosenthal. 
 
 The Cask of Life 
 
 I dip into the cask of life each day, 
 
 and drain a dipperful each time I dip. 
 
 Sometimes I am attentive to the way 
 
 I drink. Sometimes I let the dipper slip. 
 
 At times I'm generous. At times I may 
 
 not share the drink. Sometimes I'm sad or flip, 
 
 or view the cask with real or feigned dismay, 
 
 and kiss the dipper faintly with my lip. 
 
 E. H. Rosenthal.
 
 Incense 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Across an azure sky, a scarlet bird flits by 
 
 Like the fleeting soul of a flower. 
 
 Within a golden urn, the blackened petals burn 
 
 And the ashes fall in a shower. 
 
 Before a shrine of jade and pearl 
 There kneels a lovely ivory girl; 
 Like writhing snakes around her hair 
 The dim grey clouds of Incense curl. 
 
 And still the girl is there, still kneeling low in prayer, 
 
 And the Incense swirls by the hour 
 
 Across the azure sky, and floating slowly by 
 
 Drifts the soul of a scarlet flower. 
 
 Mary A. Weyse. 
 
 Jazz 
 
 ♦ 
 Dull, Insinuating music 
 With your languid, minor whine, 
 Jarring cymbals, melancholy 
 Discord, like a heavy wine 
 Pouring in our veins a lulling 
 Fatalistic, careless sleep — 
 You are drowning out the sparkling. 
 Gay, brisk steps of days gone by 
 With your weary syncopation — 
 With your studied hesitation — 
 With a saxophonic sigh ! 
 
 So we dance as you persuade us — 
 Blase youth glides dully by. 
 
 Rosalind Greene. 
 
 [16]
 
 *'Chaque nuit ]e quitte la mats on" 
 
 V 
 
 Rain-dark night upon the hills — 
 Lights like mist-blurred moons, below, 
 Gleam where cities lie; but I, 
 High upon the hills, I go. 
 
 Rain-dark night upon the hills — 
 Wind-sweeps through black, slender trees; 
 Scent of leaves and wet brown earth; 
 Sounds as of far-off, surging seas. 
 
 Rain-dark night upon the hills — 
 Far I go, aloof, and free 
 As rain, and wind, and earth, and sky, 
 In high, exultant ecstasy. 
 
 Ruth Walsworth Bosley. 
 
 [17]
 
 To Sophie A mould 
 
 <- 
 
 (Suggested by Phillip Moeller's play, Sophie) 
 
 Your frosted glass was delicate 
 
 Nor ever critic dared berate 
 
 Its artistry of charming lines. 
 
 He who makes hoar frost fashioned you 
 
 Your glass from diamond-dusted dew, 
 
 And carved upon its lovely lines 
 
 Mysteries in half-traced signs. 
 
 Your frosted glass with amber wine 
 Was filled, unto the topmost line. 
 And then was guarded jealously 
 Till Love one night all carelessly 
 Upset the glass and spilled the wine — 
 Love who could be so palatine 
 And jest with God so fearlessly. 
 
 Your frosted glass, once delicate, 
 Must now in splintered fragments wait 
 The sun, where never sun may go. 
 Your frosted glass with amber wine 
 Love quaffed and splintered drunkenly — 
 Love who can be so palatine 
 And laugh at God so carelessly. 
 
 Erminie B. fFheeler. 
 
 [18]
 
 Mist and Fire 
 
 I run out in the mist 
 
 In the dusk. 
 
 My feet are swift and beautiful. . . . 
 
 The mist is velvet under my feet. 
 
 My eyes are hot stars burning through the mist. 
 
 My lips are red old wine, wet with mist kisses. . 
 
 I am beautiful — flame in the mist. 
 
 I walk — remembering you 
 
 And the blue fire in your eyes. . . . 
 
 I am so beautiful in the mist! 
 
 If only the mist that wraps me were your arms ! 
 
 Roberta Holloway. 
 
 Evanescence 
 
 I know no color 
 Like that I see 
 In the sunrise. 
 
 And motion is nowhere 
 Like the cloud-ships 
 Slow-sailing. 
 
 The color pales, 
 The cloud-ships sink 
 And vanish. 
 
 Nothing that is can stay, 
 Nor come again 
 Forever. 
 
 Harriet McLear Hall 
 
 [19]
 
 Magic 
 
 Whatever is it 
 Keeps the heart dancing 
 When days are heavy — 
 What but the magic: 
 Magic of moonbeams, 
 Stars in the grasses, 
 Gossamer mist-wreaths, 
 Light wings of fairies. 
 Flower-scents in twilight. 
 
 Whatever is it 
 Keeps the heart dancing — 
 Grey years and heavy, 
 Rose-leaves are falling. 
 Far voices singing, 
 Near by soft laughter — 
 What but the magic: 
 Your name, the magic. 
 
 Harriet McLear Hall. 
 
 [20]
 
 Along- San Gabriel Way 
 
 Along San Gabriel Way 
 The flowers bloomed but yesterday; 
 And every creature beneath the sun 
 Found life a course of mirth and fun, 
 And every thought was light and gay, 
 
 Before lov^e came. 
 
 Along San Gabriel Way 
 A richer foliage grew one day. 
 While breezes mild and moonlight pale 
 Mingled with love's old golden tale, 
 And life grew sweeter with each day, 
 
 When love had come. 
 
 But now no longer does the sway 
 Of beauty hold San Gabriel Way. 
 The flowers all have withered brown, 
 The shrubs have all been trampled down, 
 And in my heart grey sorrows stay. 
 
 Since love has gone. 
 
 Aubrey Allan Graves. 
 
 [21]
 
 Love 
 
 Love, they told me, was a happy Lad, 
 As blithe and carefree as a summer bird, 
 Whose coming would transform the earth 
 Into a melody of mirth, 
 So bright he is and glad. 
 
 And as I watched for love — one day 
 A woman came upon my way, 
 A mother with a sobbing child. 
 And in her kindly mother-eyes 
 There was a look so tender-mild, 
 A look so infinitely wise. 
 
 Then graciously she smiled 
 
 And with a shy, alluring charm, 
 
 She gently took my lonely arm 
 
 And walked with me upon my way. 
 
 And always at her side the child 
 
 Would stay. 
 
 And weep and weep, and never play. 
 
 So crept the hours into years, 
 And over me a dull dismay. 
 And to my spirit gloomy fears. 
 For never once the Dancing Lad 
 Had come with antics fleet and gay, 
 Had come to make life wholly glad. 
 And ever day by day 
 The mother with the crying child 
 Traveled with me upon my way. 
 
 [22]
 
 Thus long I waited for the Happy Youth 
 
 And long were all my watchings then in vain, 
 
 But now at last unto my welling heart 
 
 There breaks the gleaming truth, 
 
 For Love can be no other 
 
 Than the kind-eyed Mother, 
 
 And her Child that must remain 
 
 Through all the days 
 
 On all the ways — 
 
 Her weeping child is Pain. 
 
 Ruth Harwood. 
 
 Changelings 
 
 Perhaps this crusty earth we tread so lightly 
 
 Has layers tightly 
 
 Pressed from the musk of lily petals blown 
 
 Before years had flown 
 
 To mark out time and change the rose to stone. 
 
 Perhaps our lives of segment-short mortality — 
 
 Unknown reality — 
 
 After the whisper of that slowest breath, 
 
 Which we call Death, 
 
 Will be but other forms of life in death. 
 
 And with dead roses we will find new worth 
 
 As they — in earth. 
 
 Roberta Holloway. 
 
 [23]
 
 Lament 
 •:• 
 Only the dripping rain 
 Over a gloomy sea — 
 The sorrowful refrain 
 My heart repeats to me. 
 
 To love — and yet to know 
 Naught of the loved one's heart 
 Ever to hunger so, 
 And ever held apart. 
 
 To love — and yet to feel 
 Never the human touch, 
 Never the lips to heal 
 The heart that cries so much. 
 
 Nothing of love but pain, 
 Nothing to answer me. 
 Only the dreary rain 
 Over a sombre sea. 
 
 Ruth Harivood. 
 
 The Pale Lady 
 
 lady pale, why gaze so sad 
 From out your castle casement high? 
 The happy poppies drink the gold 
 Of spring's new sky. 
 
 My lover Knight has gone afar; 
 
 1 saw his shield with fleur-de-lis, 
 As off he slowly rode, flash back 
 His love to me. 
 
 [24]
 
 So here alone I wait each day 
 With prayers that soon, soon I may see 
 Upon this field his burnished shield 
 And fleur-de-lis. 
 
 Ah, lady pale, on field afar, 
 Amid the fallen blazonry, 
 There bloody lies a dented shield 
 With fleur-de-lis. 
 
 Vernon R. King. 
 
 Next Door 
 
 The little woman's house next door 
 Is quiet now; the shades are drawn 
 And no one sings there any more. 
 
 She used to dig along the paths 
 Between the garden plots; she nursed 
 Carnations in a house of laths. 
 
 The yard is brown these days with weeds 
 That bend and fall across the paths, 
 And in the plots they cast their seeds. 
 
 Her trowel is sticking in the bed 
 Of hyacinth; she was digging there 
 The day they told her he was dead. 
 
 The widow's little house next door 
 
 Is quiet now; I wonder if 
 
 She will ever sing there any more? 
 
 Vernon R. King. 
 
 [25]
 
 / Fear the Waking Moments 
 
 I fear the waking moments 
 
 That follow sleep. 
 All through the course of day 
 
 Intensely I live! 
 
 Rigidly I keep 
 My every thought 
 Fastened on my work and my play. 
 
 And in the lonely night-time 
 
 I am able still 
 To think of common things, 
 
 The little events 
 
 And trifles that fill 
 The crowded hours 
 Till sleep bears me off on its wings. 
 
 But in the waking moments 
 
 I am not so strong : 
 The memory of you, the pain 
 
 Of losing . . . 
 
 Of days empty and long, 
 Rush mockingly back 
 Before I am master again ! 
 
 Aubrey Allan Graves. 
 
 [26]
 
 A Sailor s Ballad 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Suns — suns — over my head — 
 
 Each day a new sun rolls over my head — 
 
 Suns with gold whiskers, an' suns grey an' dead — 
 
 Each day a sun rollin' over my head. 
 
 Once come a sun all shinin' an' red, 
 
 A sun full o' light swingin' over my head — 
 
 Gold sky were his floor — silver sea were his bed — 
 
 That round, flashin' sun swingin' over my head. 
 
 Oh, that were the day me and Susan were wed. 
 
 Once come a sun ridin' pinions o' lead — 
 A sun dark as death rollin' over my head. 
 With his mouth full o' thunder, his jaws full o' 
 
 dread — 
 A storm-snortin' sun rollin' over my head. 
 Oh, that were the day that my Susan were dead — 
 With the lightnin'-lipped sun grinnin' over her head. 
 
 Roberta Hollow ay. 
 
 [27]
 
 Footprints 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Listen, ocean, listen. 
 
 Do you remember 
 
 When she and I walked here together 
 
 Once upon these sands? 
 
 Do you remember 
 
 How the clear winds blew around her, 
 
 And you curved up hands 
 
 About her feet to hold her 
 
 Like an impassioned lover? 
 
 Do you remember 
 
 Where we rested 
 
 Looking back upon our footprints, 
 
 Heavy, broad footprints; 
 
 Light, narrow footprints. 
 
 Woven together on the sand? 
 
 Do you remember 
 
 When she said, "I wonder 
 
 Whose will last the longer"? 
 
 And I answered, partly jesting, 
 
 "Yours are closer to the water, 
 
 Mine will last the longer"? 
 
 Look now, ocean, look. 
 Far behind me — footprints; 
 Broad and heavy footprints only, 
 Half completed tracings 
 Of a perfect pattern. 
 
 [28]
 
 Pressing deeper, 
 Pressing slower; 
 Now I wonder 
 How much longer? 
 
 Vernon R. King. 
 
 Reality 
 
 Together did we walk one summer day — 
 
 A very little while ago it seems — 
 In vivid gardens loved by singing birds, 
 
 And pleasant sun-warmed streams. 
 We spoke the trivial thoughts of idle youth, 
 
 Nor dreamed at all that we should ever be afraid. 
 We lightly talked of death; your laughter gave 
 
 Quick tribute to the jest I made. 
 
 Now the dark silence creeps along the corridor 
 
 To the stark-edged whiteness of this ethered place, 
 And as I watch alone through the thin-drawn hours. 
 
 While the twitching shadow greys your sharpened 
 face, 
 And your great hurt makes a stifled cry 
 
 Of every gasping breath you bring, 
 I can't remember what we said that day 
 
 To make death seem a little thing. 
 
 Marion Yeatman. 
 
 [29]
 
 Longing 
 
 This haV'C I seen before, or known It, sleeping — 
 
 The moss-fringed pool, brimming with quietness, 
 Silvered with the deep silence of a dream, 
 Where Autumn-burnished trees bent lowly down 
 To sip delicately at their own fire-crowned beauty. 
 
 It is a dream — a dream of Inarticulate yearning; 
 
 For now, when an unfettered leaf 
 
 Twirls goldenly through the still dusk. 
 
 And rides, a fantastic flame, on molten shadow, 
 
 I can only stare. 
 
 And grope dumbly for comprehension 
 
 To make the marvel mine. 
 
 If some miracle could free me of sleep-numbness. 
 Then I, like a tree, might lowly kneel, and drink. 
 Drink greedily, 
 
 Of the loveliness of sllver-sllent pools, 
 Fringed with quietness and fillgreed with fire. 
 
 Marion Yeatnian. 
 
 [30]
 
 Eftd 
 
 I have seen the slowly limping fox 
 Drag himself into his hole to die; 
 And leave his blood smeared on the grass and rocks. 
 
 And I have seen the wild dove flutter to a copse 
 To die in some cool shade it loved at noon 
 And leave behind a line of darkening drops. 
 
 This morning when I rose the air was cold, 
 
 So cold it stung my lungs; the old wind hummed 
 
 In my dull ear, "You too are old, are old." 
 
 Today the yellow sun has moved and laid 
 Its burning fingers on my brow and eyes 
 And burning I panted in the too-cold shade. 
 
 Vernon R. King. 
 
 [31]
 
 One Passes By, Singing, in the Night . . . 
 
 Day shall not know me, 
 Nor night 
 Nor ever sorrow 
 Nor delight. 
 
 I shall go as winds go, 
 And dying fire; 
 I shall go as mists go. 
 And all desire. 
 
 Day shall not know me, 
 Nor night 
 Nor ever sorrow 
 Nor delight. 
 
 Ruth PFalsworth Bosley. 
 
 [32]
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
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