Bret Harte (A stir of pines in the forest)
A stir of pines in the forest, A klink of picks in the mine, And smoke from the tent and cabin Under the oak and vine; The peaks of the great Sierras, Awful, and still, and white, Piercing the clouds of sunset, Touching the stars of night; And the subtle scent of the laurel, Pungent, that fills and thrills,— The breath of the wonderful laurel On the wonderful Western hills. Men, of the brood of giants, Lusty and young and strong, With heart-pulse set to the rhythm And lilt of a brave new song; Mighty of nerve and muscle As the hero-knights of old, Fighting the New World battles On the Field of the Cloth of Gold. And O the scent of the laurel! . . . . There's a new moon low in the west, And the night is a brooding mother With the tired world on her breast. And these are her dreams and visions. Who spake of a face that lay Under the English daisies, In a silence, far away?
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