Francis Bret Harte (Фрэнсис Брет Гарт)
San Francisco
(FROM THE SEA) 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.
Francis Bret Harte’s other poems:
