This is thy form, dear, native home of mine,—

A gold-net hammock swung from palm to pine,

Moved by the breezes of the peaceful sea,

And in the net, smiling so drowsily,

My mother California, queen divine,

Rests, while the poppy garlands her entwine.

In her warm arms, 'neath cloudless summer skies,

As child I heard her bee-hummed lullabies,

Saw her red malvas, blue nemophylÆ,

Pink manzanitas, deep-hued laurel tree,

And what were marvels to my childish eyes,

Her mariposas, (tethered butterflies).

What of the rich and wondrous foreign things

Which each new tide to her in tribute brings!

Although from olive, orange, fig, and vine,

Her own fond children all their wealth consign,

'Tis Flora's gifts my royal mother sings,

As, joined to palm and pine, her hammock swings.