Poem by Ina Donna Coolbrith

From Russian Hill

Night and the hill to me!
Silence no sound that jars;
Above, of stars a sea;
Below, a sea of stars!

Tranced in slumber’s sway,
The city at its feet.
A tang of salty spray
Blends with the odors sweet

From garden-close and wall,
Where the madrona stood,
And tangled chaparral,
In the old solitude.

Here, from the Long Ago,
Rezanov’s sailors sleep;
There, the Presidio;
Beyond, the plumed steep;

The waters, mile on mile,
Foam-fringed with feathery white;
The beaconed fortress isle,
And Yerba Buena’s light.

O hill of Memories!
Thy scroll so closely writ
With song, that bough and breeze
And bird should utter it:

Hill of desire and dream,
Youth’s visions manifold,
That still in beauty gleam
From the sweet days of old!

Ring out thy solemn tone,
O far-off Mission bell!
I keep the tryst alone
With one who loved me well.

A voice I may not hear!
Face that I may not see,
Yet know a Presence near
To watch the hour with me. . .

How stately and serene
The moon moves up the sky!
How silvery between
The shores her footprints lie!

Peace, that no shadow mars!
Night and the hill to me!
Below, a sea of stars!
Above, of stars a sea!

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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