What matters that her multitudinous store-- The garnered fruit of measureless desire-- Sank in the maelstrom of abysmal fire, To be of man beheld on earth no more? Her loyal children, cheery to the core. Quailed not, nor blenched, while she, above the ire Of elemental ragings, dared aspire On victory's wings resplendently to soar. What matters all the losses of the years, Since she can count the subjects as her own That share her fortunes under every fate; Who weave their brightest tissues from her tears, And who, although her best be overthrown, Resolve to make her and to keep her great.
EDWARD ROKESON TAYLOR, in _Sunset Magazine._
They could hear the roar and crackle of the fire and the crashing of walls; but even more formidable was that tramping of thousands of feet, the scraping of trunks and furniture on the tracks and stones. * * * It was a well and a carefully dressed crowd, for by this time nearly everyone had recovered from the shock of the earthquake; many forgotten it, no doubt, in the new horror. * * * They pushed trunks to which skates had been attached, or pulled them by ropes; they trundled sewing machines and pieces of small furniture, laden with bundles. Many carried pillow-cases, into which they had stuffed a favorite dress and hat, an extra pair of boots and a change of underclothing, some valuable bibelot or bundle of documents; to say nothing of their jewels and what food they could lay hands on. Several women wore their furs, as an easier way of saving them, and children carried their dolls. Their state of mind was elemental. * * * The refinements of sentiment and all complexity were forgotten; they indulged in nothing so futile as complaint, nor even conversation. And the sense of the common calamity sustained them, no doubt, de-individualized them for the hour.
The sun is dying; space and room. Serenity, vast sense of rest, Lie bosomed in the orange west Of Orient waters. Hear the boom Of long, strong billows; wave on wave, Like funeral guns above a grave.
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.