"They are the true Mother Lode, the bourne of the seekers of gold,
greater, far, than the crazed brains of the old prospectors had the
power to conceive. A further-reaching, broader arc than the most
wondrous rainbow of their imaginings born of dreams, and built of hunger
and despair."

"So shall we find, at last, the Mother Lode, the virginity of the
essence of creation, the beginning and the end. The curve of the circle
which is unchanging, insoluble, omniscient; which shall return to that
which created it; which is all; which is God!"



"'49"

"We have worked our claims,
We have spent our gold,
Our barks are astrand on the bars;
We are battered and old,
Yet at night we behold
Outcroppings of gold in the stars.

Where the rabbits play,
Where the quail all day
Pipe on the chaparral hill;
A few more days,
And the last of us lays
His pick aside and is still.

We are wreck and stray,