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Poem	The world has many seas, Mediterranean, Atlantic, but here is the shore of the one ocean. And here the heavy future hangs like a cloud; the enormous scene; the enormous games preparing Weigh on the water and strain the rock; the stage is here, the play is conceived; the players are not found. I saw on the Sierras, up the Kaweah valley above the Moro rock, the mountain redwoods Like red towers on the slopes of snow; about their bases grew a bushery of Christmas green, Firs and pines to be monuments for pilgrimage In Europe; I remembered the Swiss forests, the dark robes of Pilatus, no trunk like these there; But these are underwood; they are only a shrubbery about the boles of the trees. Our people are clever and masterful; They have powers in the mass, they accomplish marvels. It is possible Time will make them before it annuls them, but at present There is not one memorable person, there is not one mind to stand with the trees, one life with the mountains.
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