"Lo! I have waited long! How longer yet must my strung harp be dumb, Ere its great master come? Till the fair singer comes to wake the strong, Rapt chords of it unto the new, glad song! Him a diviner speech My song-birds wait to teach: The secrets of the field My blossoms will not yield To other hands than his; And, lingering for this, My laurels lend the glory of their boughs To crown no narrower brows. For on his lips must wisdom sit with youth, And in his eyes, and on the lids thereof, The light of a great love-- And on his forehead, truth!" . . . Was it the wind, or the soft sigh of leaves, Or sound of singing waters? Lo, I looked, And saw the silvery ripples of the brook, The fruit upon the hills, the waving trees, And mellow fields of harvest: saw the Gate Burn in the sunset; the thin thread of mist Creep white across the Saucelito hills; Till the day darkened down the ocean rim, The sunset purple slipped from Tamalpais, And bay and sky were bright with sudden stars. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of California, by Ina Coolbrith