Like funeral guns above a grave.

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 prone
By the rock of earth and sweep of flame