Classic Poem

( Born Grass Valley, Cal., Aug. 15, 1866)

It was on an August morning,
And the index pointed seven,
When, the bare, gray sky adorning,
Rose the red sun up the heaven, —
Rose up o'er the wooded mountains,
Glowing, through the dark pine branches,
On the streamlets and the rills
Wandering from their limpid fountains,
Soiled by man's use, till the hills
Had hardly known them at the mills,
Or as they gurgled o'er the ranches.

All the birds knew it was song-time,
And their little throats this long time,
With no single note of sadness,
Had been quivering with gladness.

All the trees knew it was dawning;
And, beneath their sky-wide awning,
Every one among their number
Stood up fresh and glad from slumber.

Lavish summer in the vales!
Lavish summer on the hills!
Yet the cool air whispered tales
Of snow-topped peaks and snow-fed rills.
California's balm was round us;
Wild Sierra's foothills bound us.
In the cottage vine-embowered,
In the cottage fruit-tree hidden,
Came the morning, weary-houred,
Long requested, long forbidden.

Then it was when that high Heaven,
Which to us our love had given,
Which through years, through any weather,
Our blind hearts had drawn together,
Sent from out the blue a spirit,
Our two lives and love t' inherit.

Fairer to us than an angel
Came she with her new evangel;
Opening to our comprehension
Love beyond all former mention;
Making holier what was holy,
Dignifying what was lowly;
Teaching us, with sweet revealing,
What might be creative feeling;
Thus that higher love explaining,
Ever hard to man's attaining.

Eyes has she that ripple laughter,
Her own mother's copied after;
Brown and deep and full of dreaming
When in silent thought she's seeming.
She has curling hair that's flaxen,
Dimpled face all round and waxen,
Only with no lifeless whiteness, —
Like a lily in its lightness;
Whiter that blue veins look through it,
And the red blood rushes to it.

Cupid's bow her lips informed,
Made red with throbbing life heart-warmed.
And their soft prattle's senseless words
Are cheerier than brooks or birds.
And, then, the patter of her feet, —
Earth has no music half so sweet!
How desolate my study door,
If they came tottering there no more!

Through one year and half a second
Life thy trusting feet has beckoned.
Each new day some deeper seeming
Flits across thy face like dreaming;
And thy prattle grows to talking,
As thy totter does to walking.
Ever some new trick or notion
Keeps thy little life all motion, —

Testing new-discovered powers,
Presents of the passing hours.
All our big hearts thou art moving
With thy small, fond ways of loving,
Till we clasp thee with emotions,
So surpassing all the notions
Of thy little head so wise,
Thou starest at us in surprise.
Then, we look on through the years,
Bright with smiles or dim with tears,
Wondering if those years are bringing
Gifts of sighing or of singing.

But our serious meditation
Soon gives way to consternation;
For, while far our thoughts are straying,
Thou some new-found prank art playing.
Clutching at the table-cover,
All the glass goes toppling over:
And, as fly the scattered pieces,
Thy triumphant crow increases:
Clap thy little hands, and after
All the ruin goes thy laughter.
Baby, wilt thou hearts be breaking
In the after years, and making
Thy then new-found power to blight
Theme for triumph and delight?

What thy future is to be
We may not, and we would not, see.
Born within the Golden State,
Thou, out through the Golden Gate,
Through the Indian summer drifting
Toward the southern sun-lands, lifting,
(As in vision beatific,)
O'er the glassy-smooth Pacific,
Mountain vast or palm-tree vale,
Didst thy first life-voyage sail.

So, as thy first voyage begun,
Sail thou on toward the sun!
Gentlest breezes, round thee blowing,
Speed thee to some fair clime going!
Clouds and storms affright thee never,
But blue skies be o'er thee ever!
Till, when all the sea is past,
Some fair port thou make at last!