Green Tamalpais, starward swung,
Brown hill and harbor isle,
O winding rivers, inland flung
Where sea-lured valleys smile,
I see you from the waters wide,
I see you watch and wait
The wandering sail, the running tide,
That win the Golden Gate.
I see you watch and wait, as when
In quest of Monterey,
Swart old Don Gaspar and his men
Looked on you first, that day;
I see you watch in mist and sun,
As when the Spaniard bore
In from the sea his galleon
Where ship sailed ne'er before.
Footsteps a many trod since then
The old Franciscan Trail—
Since swart Don Gaspar and his men
Since Juan de Ayla's sail.
From every trail, from every sea,
With eager hearts elate,
They wandered with what gods there be
To seek the Golden Gate.
Far from the gates of dawn they came,
Far from the lands of morn,
Far from the distant sunset's flame,
And 'round the stormy Horn.
And all the roads, 'twas there they met,
Where bay to ocean spills,
And there the wanderers' tents were set
On thrice the seven hills.
The brown-robed Padres pray no more
In cowl and sandal shoon
When falls on golden sea and shore
The silver of the moon.
The Argo's rotted keel is laid
Deep in the harbor's waves,
And they who wrought and they who prayed
Sleep long in silent graves.
Yet, as of old, the running tide
Thrills through the Golden Gate,
The rivers seek the ocean wide,
The brown hills watch and wait.
The stars on Tampalais gleam,
The lights flash out to sea,
And this is still the wanderer's dream
Where'er his path may be.
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