But All Lost Things Are In The

O May, Sweet-voice One, Going Thus Before, Forever June May Pour Her Warm Red Wine Of Life And Passions,--sweeter Days Are Thine!

O Winter! Frozen Pulse And Heart Of Fire, What Loss Is Theirs Who From Thy Kingdom Turn Dismayed, And Think Thy Snow A Sculptured Urn Of Death! Far Sooner In Midsummer Tire The Streams Than Under Ice. June Could Not Hire Her Roses To Forego The Strength They Learn In Sleeping On Thy Breast.

There Is Nothing So Skillful In Its Own Defense As Imperious Pride.

The Wild Mustard In Southern California Is Like That Spoken Of In The New Testament. . . . Its Gold Is As Distinct A Value To The Eye As The Nugget Gold Is In The Pocket.

Like A Blind Spinner In The Sun,i Tread My Days:i Know That All The Threads Will Runappointed Ways.i Know Each Day Will Bring Its Task,and Being Blind No More I Ask.