The River a7id Life 



Kaweah in Tulare 



Across Tulare, in the early morning, 



The western trades blow free, 

 Bearing above us in huge broken masses 



The white mists from the sea. 



Through wastes of sand, green-fringed with oaks and willows, 



The swift Kaweah goes, 

 Down to the thirsty basin of Tulare, 



Which never overflows. 



Its current mingles with the milk-white waters 



Of the great silent lake, 

 Which, to receive it, through its guard of tules, 



An opening seems to make. 



O'er the dark foothills rise the calm Sierras, 



Flushed with the morning red : 

 From their slow-melting snow-fields the Kaweah, 



An infant stream, is fed. 



Its winding course, rock-walled by clifF and canyon, 



I trace in dim outline, 

 Through flecks of cloud between the silent summits 



And the dark shades of pine. 



My spirit wanders to those far recesses; 



I scent the fragrant air, 

 Filtered from glaciers pure, through sun-warmed meshes 



Of pine-leaves everywhere. 



I seem to see the granite cliflFs uprising 



Like mighty castle walls; 

 And in the breeze, as snow-white banners waving. 



The foamy waterfalls. 



From each dark cleft, half hid in fern and aspen, 



Their music comes to me, 

 With the one song the pine-tree's ever singing 



Blended in harmony. 



I 841 -} 



