  At home the blossoms are asleep Beside the frost-bound rills; At home the snow is drifting deep Upon the windy hills; At home the ice king mocks the sun, The woods are drear and bare, And of the birds there is not one Left singing anywhere. But here the fields are green with grain, The mesas bright with flowers. The birds repeat each dulcet strain They learned in Eden’s bowers. ’Midst ripening fruit, the orange trees Have mingled odorous blooms, And here and there the eager bees Hum through the golden glooms. The swart Sierras, crowned with snow, Stand knee deep in the green, Like patriarchs smiling as they go Blithe groups of youth between. Of the Mojave Before, the warm Pacific strand, By golden seas embraced. When in the palm tree’s shade I rest Through a many a perfect day, My heart would fain forget life’s quest, And live in dreams alway; But when upon the snow-clad hills Mine eyes again look forth, I wake. Thy spell my bosom thrills, Stern homeland in the north! Give me the seasons of the year, The bursting of the leaf, The northern summer brief but dear, And autumn’s golden sheaf. Give me the wintry moon’s pale gleam, With snow and storm at strife. The south is a bewitching dream, But in the north is life. |
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