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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 159 pages of information about The California Birthday Book.

IDAH MEACHAM STROBRIDGE,
in Miner’s Mirage Land.

AUGUST 23.

THE PAEAN OF THE POPPIES.

  The mountains sway with flame
    Where the frail glories tremble—­
      Fair fallen stars of fire! 
  The valleys green acclaim
    The legions that assemble
      In royal robe and tire,
        With timbrel, shawm and choir.

* * * * *

  Afar in darker lands
    I feel their kisses burning
      As sweet, uncertain lips. 
  As faint, unhindered hands
    Are felt by exiles yearning
      On shores when tears eclipse
        The wan and westering ships.

HERMAN SCHEFFAUER,
in Looms of Life.

AUGUST 24.

PEACE.

  No hand have I on rudder laid;
    All my oars lie idly by;
  All my sheets are steadfast made. 
    For Love now guides me silently.

  His are the waves and flowing tide;
    He is my bark and chart and hand;
  He is companion at my side;
    His the coming and departed land.

  Somewhere, I know, I port shall win;
    Somewhen I know, dear friends, I’ll see;
  Love, “The I Am” is lord within! 
    Daily he brings mine own to me.

HENRY HARRISON BROWN,
in Now, March, 1900.

AUGUST 25.

IN THE SEASON OF POPPIES.

  From the shoulders of Dawn the night shadow slipped,
    As the shy, saintly Moon evaded her tryst
  With the roystering Sun, who eagerly sipped
    From the valley’s green cup the golden-white mist. 
  Day flashed like a smile from Dawn’s rosy mouth,
    With a passion of birds and fragrant appeals,
  And the warm winds up from the sleepy South
    Sluiced the red, scented gold of our poppy fields.

HARLEY R. WILEY,
in Overland Monthly, Sept., 1908.

AUGUST 26.

WHEN THE POPPY GOES TO SLEEP.

  Now the sandman comes a-calling,
    And those eyes can scarcely peep: 
  It is little children’s bedtime
    When the poppy goes to sleep. 
  In the west the sun is sinking,
    And the chickens go to roost: 
  And the poppy folds its petals
    That the beaming sun had loosed.

* * * * *

  And the poppy like the Arab,
    Silent in the close of day,
  Fearful of the coming darkness,
    Folds its tent and steals away. 
  Hear the sandman’s final warning
    On the land and on the deep,
  Saying, “Good night, good night, good night,”
    When the poppy goes to sleep.

CHARLES McKNIGHT SAIN,
in The Call of the Muse.

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