From the Valley

By George Sterling

Not in the sultry garden would I be,
  When gorgeous flowers in the silence flare,
And when the fragrance-burdened orange tree
  Drenches the windless air.

For here the languors of the afternoon
  Lull soul and limb, and blossoms hide the sky-
A peace in which the drowsy senses swoon,
  And dreams but wake to die.

But I would stand where woven waters leap
  And icy winds from desolation blow,
And where the morning sunlight in its sweep
  Silvers untrodden snow;

Where channeled granite towers to the cloud
  And on the cliff the falling torrents sway,
And where the song of pine and fir is loud
  And eagles take the day.

And I would gather on the mountain ledge
  A flower half the sister of the snows,
Or, in the shadow of the canyon-edge,
  The wild Sierran rose.
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