ow,--
His feet upon the mountain and his shadow on the pass.

He built himself a cabin from red cedars of his own;
He blasted out the stumps and twitched the boulders from the soil;
And with an axe and chisel he fashioned out a throne
Where he might dine in grandeur off the first-fruits of his toil.

His orchard is a treasure-house alive with song and sun,
Where currants ripe as rubies gleam and golden pippins glow;
His servants are the wind and rain whose work is never done,
Till winter rends the scarlet roof and banks the halls with snow.

He shouts across the valley, and the ranges answer back;
His brushwood smoke at evening lifts a column to the moon;
And dim beyond the distance, where the Kootenai winds black,
He hears the silence shattered by the laughter of the loon.

From Exile

Call to me, call to me, fields of poppied wheat!
Purple thistles by the road call me to return!
Now a thousand shriller throats echo down the street,
And I cannot hear the wind camping in the fern.

Little leaves beside the trail dance your way to town,
Till you find your brother here who remembers yet;
For though a river runs between and the bridge is down,
I've a heart that's roaming and a soul that won't forget.

A sun squats on the house-tops, but his face is hard and dry;
A rain walks up and down the streets, but her voice is harsh--
Sunlight is a different thing where the swallows fly,
And rain-tongues sing with sweeter voice when they're on the marsh.

Once a thousand bending blades stoop to let me pass,
When I sped barefooted through your crowding lines--
Whisper to me gently in the language of the grass,
How I watched the crows of night nest among the pines.

Still the golden pollen smokes, silver runs the rain,
Still the timid mists creep out when the sun lies down--
Oh, I am weary waiting to return to you again,
So take a pale, familiar face out beyond the town.

The Warm Green Sea

The winds run warm on the waves of the grass
that lifts like a scented sea.
No sound of the surf, no sob of the tides;
but the drone of the drowsy bee
Is drawing me out from the purple shades
to wade in the daffodils,
Where the long green billows go drifting by
to lap the feet of the hills.

Like the snow-white spume on the shattered waves
the daisies twist an