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JOAQUIN MILLER, in _Collected Poems._
APRIL 23.
SAN FRANCISCO.
IN CHRISTMAS TWILIGHT, 1898.
In somber silhouette, against a golden sky, Francisco's city sits as sunbeams die.
The serrated hills her throne; the ocean laves her feet: Her jeweled crown the Western zephyrs greet; Their breath is fragrance, sweet as wreath of bride, In winter season as at summer tide.
AFTER APRIL 18, 1906.
Clothed with sack-cloth, strewn with ashes, Seated on a desolate throne 'Mid the spectral walls of stately domes And the skeletons of regal homes, Francisco weeps while westward thrashes Through the wrecks of mansions, stricken p.r.o.ne By the rock of earth and sweep of flame Which, unheralded and unbidden, came In the greatness of her pride full-blown And at the zenith of her matchless fame.
TALIESIN EVANS.
APRIL 24.
And let it be remembered that whatever San Francisco, her citizens and her lovers, do now or neglect to do in this present regeneration will be felt for good or ill to remotest ages. Let us build and rebuild accordingly, bearing in mind that the new San Francisco is to stand forever before the world as the measure of the civic taste and intelligence of her people.
HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT, in _Some Cities and San Francisco._
APRIL 25.
SAN FRANCISCO.
Queen regnant she, and so shall be for aye As long as her still unpolluted sea Shall wash the borders of her brave and free, And mother her incomparable Bay.
The pharisees and falsehood-mongers may Be rashly blatant as they care to be, She yet with dauntless, old-time liberty Will hold her own indomitable way.
A Royal One, all love and heart can bear.
The all of strength that human arm can wield.
Are thine devotedly, and ever thine; And thou wilt use them till thy brow shall wear A newer crown by high endeavor sealed With gems emitting brilliances divine.
EDWARD ROBESON TAYLOR, in _Sunset Magazine._
APRIL 26.
Until a man paints with the hope or with the wish to stir the minds of his fellows to better thinking and their hearts to better living, or to make some creature happier or wiser, he has not understood the meaning of art.
W.L. JUDSON, in _The Building of a Picture._
CALIFORNIA ON THE Pa.s.sING OF TENNYSON.
All silent ... So, he lies in state ...
Our redwoods drip and drip with rain ...
Against our rock-locked Golden Gate We hear the great, sad, sobbing main.
But silent all ... He pa.s.sed the stars That year the whole world turned to Mars.
JOAQUIN MILLER.
APRIL 27 AND 28.
In ended days, a child, I trod thy sands, The sands unbuilded, rank with brush and brier And blossom--chased the sea-foam on thy strands, Young city of my love and my desire!
I saw thy barren hills against the skies, I saw them topped with minaret and spire, On plain and slope thy myriad walls arise, Fair city of my love and my desire.
With thee the Orient touched heart and hands; The world's rich argosies lay at thy feet; Queen of the fairest land of all the lands-- Our Sunset-Glory, proud and strong and sweet!
I saw thee in thine anguish! tortured, p.r.o.ne.
Rent with earth-throes, garmented in fire!
Each wound upon thy breast upon my own.
Sad city of my love and my desire.
Gray wind-blown ashes, broken, toppling wall And ruined hearth--are these thy funeral pyre?
Black desolation covering as a pall-- Is this the end, my love and my desire?
Nay, strong, undaunted, thoughtless of despair, The Will that builded thee shall build again, And all thy broken promise spring more fair.
Thou mighty mother of as mighty men.
Thou wilt arise invincible, supreme!
The earth to voice thy glory never tire, And song, unborn, shall chant no n.o.bler theme, Proud city of my love and my desire.
But I--shall see thee ever as of old!
Thy wraith of pearl, wall, minaret and spire, Framed in the mists that veil thy Gate of Gold, Lost city of my love and my desire.
INA D. COOLBRITH.
APRIL 29.
The cataclysmal force to which we owe Our glorious Gate of Gold, through which the sea Rushed in to clasp these sh.o.r.es long, long ago, Came once again to crown our destiny With such a grandeur that in sequent years This period of pain which now appears Pregnant with doubt, shall vanish as when day Drives the foreboding dreams of night away.
Born of the womb of Woe, where Sorrow sighs, Fostered by Faith, undaunted by Dismay, Earth's fairest City shall from ashes rise.
LOUIS ALEXANDER ROBERTSON, in _Through Painted Panes._
APRIL 30.
