SAN FRANCISCO

Serene, indifferent of Fate, Thou sittest at the Western Gate;

Upon thy height, so lately won, Still slant the banners of the sun;

Thou seest the white seas strike their tents, O Warder of two continents!

And, scornful of the peace that flies Thy angry winds and sullen skies,

Thou drawest all things, small, or great, To thee, beside the Western Gate.

O lion's whelp, that hidest fast In jungle growth of spire and mast!

I know thy cunning and thy greed, Thy hard high lust and willful deed,

And all thy glory loves to tell Of specious gifts material.

Drop down, O Fleecy Fog, and hide Her skeptic sneer and all her pride!

Wrap her, O Fog, in gown and hood Of her Franciscan Brotherhood.

Hide me her faults, her sin and blame; With thy gray mantle cloak her shame!

So shall she, cowled, sit and pray Till morning bears her sins away.

Then rise, O Fleecy Fog, and raise The glory of her coming days;

Be as the cloud that flecks the seas Above her smoky argosies;

When forms familiar shall give place To stranger speech and newer face;

When all her throes and anxious fears Lie hushed in the repose of years;

When Art shall raise and Culture lift The sensual joys and meaner thrift,

And all fulfilled the vision we Who watch and wait shall never see;

Who, in the morning of her race, Toiled fair or meanly in our place,

But, yielding to the common lot, Lie unrecorded and forgot.