The Islands of the Bay.



Tamalpais wrapped her mantle
Of the clouds about her shoulders.
Gray the day, and melancholy,
For December rains were falling,
Falling in a steady downpour.
Mournful branches of the redwoods,
Drooping, dripping, swayed above us;
Moaned above the lonely cabin
On the slope of Tamalpais.
Raindrops pattered on the shingles,
Beat against the eastern windows,
Flooding down the glass in torrents.

Through the veil of slanting rainfall.
Could be seen the distant harbor,
With its flecks of fleecy vapors
Floating, merging, disappearing.

In the fireplace of the cabin,
Logs and knots of pine were blazing,
Snapping with the pitch imprisoned;
Flocks of sparks were flying upward;
Flags of flame were waving welcome,
Warming, cheering, exorcising
Ghosts of Gloom and eerie phantoms;