Bret Harte Poem by Ina Coolbrith

The magic of his wizard pen
Still holds the world in thrall:
From lordly laurels won of men
No leaf may fade or fall.

In ways he trod, and treads no more.
His footprints linger still,
Alike on England's mother-shore,
The New World's sunset hill.

But ah! the scenes the Boy first saw,
The sea Balboa named,
The bay which stout old Portolá
For sweet St. Francis claimed,

The great Sierras piercing blue
Of sky with snowy crest,
He knew and loved them best; they knew,
They know, and love him best.

They speak of him, the forest trees,
Redwood, madroño, pine, —
The Mission Bells, — all these, and these
His memory's sacred shrine.