CALIFORNIA'S WOODLANDS
Ye timbered pastures, bright with Autumn splendor,
Yet softened with the haze by distance lent,
What hallowed memories, sublime and tender,
Are with your glories blent!
Thrilled by the passing touch of magic fingers,
From pathless thicket to sky-reaching dome,
A peaceful solace ever gently lingers
And breathes of home.
Home! that one spot, wherever situated,
Clothed with a grace no other clime may share,
From her bright precincts, by her love created,
Spring fadeless wreaths that later years shall wear;
Around her lowliest paths of daily duty
Gush rippling fountains, from Youth's glistening sands
Flow down the years, and dim with heaven-born beauty,
The glare and glitter of all other lands.
So in your shades, I love to muse and ponder
On moments yet to be,
When no more fresh to Youth's awakening wonder,
Your joys shall steal the shades of memory.
In your still aisles and forest sanctuaries,
Sacred as with the silent hush of prayer,
Spring for her farewell kiss the longer tarries
On Summer's golden stair;
And here old Autumn paints in rich profusion
Madroña berries and bright leaves of flame,
Then steals from out the forest's sweet seclusion,
Telling not whence he goes, or whence he came.
Beneath those gnarled old trees, antique and hoary,
Sear leaves have echoed to the Indian's tread,
And lovers oft have told the old-time story,
While birds sang overhead.
Yet softened with the haze by distance lent,
What hallowed memories, sublime and tender,
Are with your glories blent!
Thrilled by the passing touch of magic fingers,
From pathless thicket to sky-reaching dome,
A peaceful solace ever gently lingers
And breathes of home.
Home! that one spot, wherever situated,
Clothed with a grace no other clime may share,
From her bright precincts, by her love created,
Spring fadeless wreaths that later years shall wear;
Around her lowliest paths of daily duty
Gush rippling fountains, from Youth's glistening sands
Flow down the years, and dim with heaven-born beauty,
The glare and glitter of all other lands.
So in your shades, I love to muse and ponder
On moments yet to be,
When no more fresh to Youth's awakening wonder,
Your joys shall steal the shades of memory.
In your still aisles and forest sanctuaries,
Sacred as with the silent hush of prayer,
Spring for her farewell kiss the longer tarries
On Summer's golden stair;
And here old Autumn paints in rich profusion
Madroña berries and bright leaves of flame,
Then steals from out the forest's sweet seclusion,
Telling not whence he goes, or whence he came.
Beneath those gnarled old trees, antique and hoary,
Sear leaves have echoed to the Indian's tread,
And lovers oft have told the old-time story,
While birds sang overhead.
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