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Entered as second-class matter April 28, 1910, at the post office at Berkeley, California, under the Act of July 16, 1894.

How can one know about these years?
Perhaps some spring, a score away or less,

Will be more brimmed with vernal loveliness
Than this exquisite one appears.

Yet this year blossoms more replete
With happiness than I had dreamed could be
A span of springs ago, when youth in me
Was fresh and buoyant and sweet.

For, well I thought supreme delight

My heritage was then. But O, this spring!
With heart more rich to catch its burgeoning!
And soul attuned more to its height!

OASIS

The sun burns all the more with parching heat
Because of transient shade.

But none would sacrifice the shelter sweet
Because of pain it made.

Thus was it with the music that I heard,
Long barren months apart.

I was so glad of beauty though it stirred
More hunger in my heart.

QUERY

The more to guard my heart from harm

I schooled me to forget

That love between us wove a charm,

Or that we ever met.

Yet why among my garden's green,

Nor asking any rights,

Should creep

that wild bloom never seen

But on our trysting nights.

VAGRANT

All day long soft gliding hours pass,

Golden golden hours pilfered until night.
And I lie here upon the mellow grass
Only an inarticulate delight.

No mind that rancors with ambition's powers,
Nothing but senses seeping in the bliss.
Yet not wholly prodigal the vagrant hours
If I can save their golden warmth with this.

HILL DAYS

There's no staying inside,
For this is a hill day
With doors open wide,
Spring in first glory.

Children that toddle

To old men with canes
Climb past my hill-house
After the rains.

Some days are gloomy

With all the paths still.
But this is a glad day

Here on the hill!

ACACIA RAPTURE

It matters not how many years
Of waking springs I see,

Each fresh time there appears

Acacia with its wealth of golden filigree
I stand before it, rapture mad,

As to some deity.

I fancy that the fervent earth
Has climbed all year to this,
And that acacias in their worth
Are to her as the utmost kiss.

It matters not how many years
The gold acacias break,

They make me mad and glad to tears,
And turn me robber for their sake.

COQUETTE

The mountain is coquetting, it is true,

For at her base

She wears a scarf of mist,

And round her face

A veil of amethyst

Half hiding her and yet half showing through.

I think she must be flirting with the sun

To see the flush

That radiates her cheek;

The rosy blush

That makes her seem so meek,

I'm sure is but the ruse by which he's won.