A Yosemite Idyl 



The seams and the scars in the wrinkled old rocks are 

 garbed in the glory of grasses and moss. 



Flowers and ferns fall over bare boulders, 

 each petal and frond adrip with the dew. 

 The meadows are drenched with showers of 

 sunshine, as the king of day climbs upward 

 to his throne. 



Bunches of azalea bloom hang their be- 

 witching beauty above the babbling waters 

 of the merry Merced as it laughs and leaps 

 swift away to the sea. I catch the cadence in my 

 dreams and live it o'er again between the dewfall 

 and the dawn. Rhythmic river, I love you now, 

 and shall forever and a day; singing, singing as 

 you go, where the bright azaleas bloom. 

 It is old Yosemite grown youthful and gay mid the 

 fragrance of flowers, the singing of birds, and the dews of the 

 dawn. The spirit of spring is the spirit of youth, and old 

 Yosemite is happy and gay. 



