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 lions 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.