CALIFORNIA

INTRODUCTION

I have always believed that the Poet of the New World—of the World—wasto come out of the West—from California. Why not? Would it be morestrange that this broad land by the shores of the vast Pacific shouldproduce the Supreme Singer, than that a little Island of the farAtlantic should have given birth to the Bard of Avon—to that kinglierbrow than ever wore a crown?

For California is a Poem! The land of romance, of mystery, of worship,of beauty and of Song. It chants from her snow-crested, cloud-banneredmountain-ranges; it hymns thro' her forests of sky-reaching pine andsequoia; it ripples in her flowered and fruited valleys; it thundersfrom her fountains pouring, as it were, from the very waters above thefirmament; it anthems from the deeps of the mightiest ocean of the world;and echoes ever in the syllables of her own strangely beautifulname,—California.

The spell of enchantment which she wove about me from the day when—alittle child—I entered her borders thro' the rocky mountain-pass fromthe long trail across the great plains, was not lessened by theafter-vision of the Southland grape and fig, orange and pomegranate,—orthe (so-called) deserts of sand and cacti, which the spring monthscovered with a carpet of bloom rivalling the richest dyes of the Persianlooms. Rather has it increased with the passing of time.

And then she is, as our brothers of France would say, of such a Bigness;is so stupendous! Surely, of her, greatness only should be born: whynot the greatest of all,—the Master Singer?

With all this mind-enwoven, it was but natural, when in after years Iwas asked by the University of California to contribute a poem for itsCommencement Day, that I should seek to voice my belief. How inadequatethe expression to the inner song only I may fully realize. Yet am Iglad that the first Commencement Poem to be written by a woman for anyuniversity, is of, and bears the name of California.

Ina Coolbrith.

CALIFORNIA

Was it the sigh and shiver of the leaves?
Was it the murmur of the meadow brook,
That in and out the reeds and water weeds
Slipped silverly, and on their tremulous keys
Uttered her many melodies? Or voice
Of the far sea, red with the sunset gold,
That sang within her shining shores, and sang
Within the Gate, that in the sunset shone
A gate of fire against the outer world?

For, ever as I turned the magic page
Of that old song the old, blind singer sang
Unto the world, when it and song were young—
The ripple of the reeds, or odorous,
Soft sigh of leaves, or voice of the far sea—
A mystical, low murmur, tremulous
Upon the wind, came in with musk of rose,
The salt breath of the waves, and far, faint smell
Of laurel up the slopes of Tamalpais. . . .

"Am I less fair, am I less fair than these,
Daughters

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