Someday I shall go West, br Having won all time to love it in, at last, br Too still to boast. br br But when I smell the sage, br When the long, marching landscape line br Melts into wreathing mountains, br And the dust cones dance, br Something in me that is of them will stir. br br Happy if I come home br When the musk scented, moon-white gilia blows, br When all the hills are blue, remembering br The sea from which they rose. br Happy again, br When blunt faced bees carouse br In the red flagons of the incense shrub, br Or apricots have lacquered boughs, br And trails are dim with rain! br br Lay me where some contented oak can prove br How much of me is nurture for a tree; br Sage thoughts of mine br Be acorn clusters for the deer to browse. br My loving whimsies -- Will you chide again br When they come up as lantern flowers? br br I shall be small and happy as the grass, br Proud if my tip br Stays the white, webby moons the spider weaves, br Where once you trod br Or down my bleaching stalks shall slip br The light, imprisoning dew.