Poem by Ina Donna Coolbrith

To San Francisco

Fair on your hills, my City,
Fair as the Queen of old,
Supreme in her seven-hilled splendor-
You, from your Gate of Gold,
Facing the orient sunburst,
Swathed in the sunset gleams,
Throned in an ultimate glory,
City of mists and of dreams!

1. Bret Harte (A stir of pines in the forest)
2. Meadowlarks
3. The Captive of the White City
4. Two
5. Rose and Thistle

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