San Francisco
In lands of sun, a city stands apart,
A rare and misty jewel of human art.
Not built on easy plains or common ground,
But where the sea and golden hills are found.
The fog rolls in, a phantom, cool and grey,
To shroud the towers at the close of day.
It moves like the past, through the single gates,
A whispered mystery that the hour waits.
Its hills are vertical, a winding dream,
With cable cars that climb against the stream.
Victorian houses, daubed bright and bold,
A story in each cornice, we are told.
Where tech and grit in restless union meet,
And every vista feels, a brand new feat.
From Coit’s peak to the bridge’s arching wire,
San Francisco sets the rare soul on fire.
A compact wonder, singular and grand,
The rarest city in this western land.
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