By George Sterling

What realms my memories of thee enfold!
    Never I read a tear-compelling tale
    Of queens that loved, or hero-vassaled grail,
But what the glimmer of thy locks of gold
Is on the heart's horizon, and I hold
    The paths of legend, clad in blesséd mail,
    Far-following thy shadow till it fail,
Or change to sorrow's star, forlornly cold.

Ah! Craig! and shall I lose thee? In thy face
    Meet all the visions, beautiful and sad,
        That woke man's hunger in the perished years,
When heroes travailed for a dream's embrace,
    And marshaled where the swords of death were glad,
        And sought thy lips beyond a thousand spears.

San Francisco.

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