Where the buckeye trees still blossom
Over mortar holes, half hidden.
Children play with merry laughter
Hide and seek among the boulders.
Even now perhaps, the Fairies
Dressed as butterflies may whisper
Secrets in the ears of children,
If they listen to the voices.

If her eyes should trace the steamers
As they thread the curving channel
Opened by the ancient earthquake,
She would see them pass an island
On whose red and barren summit
She was wounded in the battle.
White men call it Red Rock Island,
Knowing not the crimson color
Is from blood, shed in the battle
Fought upon the lofty summit
Of a mountain that was swallowed
When the mighty chasm opened,
Leaving but its peak projecting
Through the surface of the waters.

There she lies in queenly beauty,
Martyred Maid of Tamalpais,
With her face upturned to heaven,
As when praying, 'Take me, Father;
Save my people; Save the Tamals.'
On her head the snows of winter