The Cool, Grey City of Love
(SAN FRANCISCO)
By GEORGE STERLING
Tho I die on a distant strand,
And they give me a grave in that land,
Yet carry me back to my own city!
Carry me back to her grace and pity!
For I think I could not rest
Afar from her mighty breast.
She is fairer than others are
Whom they sing the beauty of.
Her heart is a song and a star--
My cool, grey city of love.
Tho they tear the rose from her brow,
To her is ever my vow;
Ever to her I give my duty--
First in rapture and first in beauty,
Wayward, passionate, brave,
Glad of the life God gave.
The sea-winds are her kiss,
And the sea-gull is her dove.
Cleanly and strong she is--
My cool, grey city of love.
The winds of the Future wait
At the iron walls of her Gate,
And the western ocean breaks in thunder,
And the western stars go slowly under,
And her gaze is ever West
In the dream of her young unrest.
Her sea is a voice that calls,
And her star a voice above,
And her wind a voice on her walls--
My cool, grey city of love.
Tho they stay her feet at the dance,
In her is the far romance.
Under the rain of winter falling,
Vine and rose will await recalling.
Tho the dark be cold and blind,
Yet her sea-fog's touch is kind,
And her mightier caress
Is joy and the pain thereof;
And great is thy tenderness,
O cool, grey city of love!
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From The San Francisco Bulletin,
vol. 133, no. 31 (Dec. 11, 1920), p. 1.
Transcribed by Alan Gullette.
(Note: The limitations of HTML preclude exact
duplication of
indentations and
therefore the transcriber has taken liberties to
provide consistent formatting.)
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The City By the Sea -- San Francisco
By George Sterling
At the end of our streets is sunrise;
At the end of our streets are spars;
At the end of our streets is sunset;
At the end of our streets the stars.
Ever the winds of morning
Are cool from the flashing sea--
Flowing swift from our ocean,
Till the fog-dunes crumble and flee.
Slender spars in the offing,
Mast and yard in the slips--
How they tell on the azure
Of the sea-contending ships!
Homeward into the sunset
Sill unwearied we go,
Till the northern hills are misty
With the amber of afterglow.
Stars that sink to our ocean,
Winds that visit our strand,
The heavens are your pathway,
Where is a gladder land!
At the end of our streets is sunrise;
At the end of our streets are spars;
At the end of our streets is sunset;
At the end of our streets the stars.
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From The San Francisco Bulletin,
vol. 135, no. 19 (Nov. 30, 1922), p.
14.
Transcribed by Alan Gullette.
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