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T H E WOR L D | 51 Beats warmer than this brooding day, Spreads wider than the hill-rimmed bay, And throbs to tenderer life, were it but seen, Than all this new-born, all-enfolding green! Within that heart lives still All that one guesses, dreams, and sees— Sitting in sunlight, warm, at ease— From this high island,—Russian Hill. “An Unusual Rain” Again! Another day of rain! It has rained for years. It never clears. The clouds come down so low They drag and drip Across each hill-top’s tip. In progress slow They blow in from the sea Eternally; Hang heavily and black, And then roll back; And rain and rain and rain, Both drifting in and drifting out again. They come down to the ground, These clouds, where the ground is high; And, lest the weather fiend forget And leave one hidden spot unwet, The fog comes up to the sky! And all our pavement of planks and logs Reeks with the rain and steeps in the fogs Till the water rises and sinks and presses Into your bonnets and shoes and dresses; And every outdoor-going dunce Is wet in forty ways at once. Wet? It’s wetter than being drowned. Dark? Such darkness never was found Since first the light was made. And cold? O come to the land of grapes and gold, Of fruit and flowers and sunshine gay, When the rainy season’s under way! And they tell you calmly, evermore, They never had such rain before! 52 | In This Our World What’s that you say? Come out? Why, see that sky! Oh, what a world! so clear! so high! So clean and lovely all about; The sunlight burning through and through, And everything just blazing blue. And look! the whole world blossoms again The minute the sunshine follows the rain. Warm sky—earth basking under— Did it ever rain, I wonder? The Hills The flowing waves of our warm sea Roll to the beach and die, But the soul of the waves forever fills The curving crests of our restless hills That climb so wantonly. Up and up till you look to see Along the cloud-kissed top The great hill-breakers curve and comb In crumbling lines of falling foam Before they settle and drop. Down and down, with the shuddering sweep Of the sea-wave’s glassy wall, You sink with a plunge that takes your breath, A shrill the stirreth and quickeneth, Like the great line steamer’s fall. We have laid our streets by the square and line, We have built by the line and square; But the strong hill-rises arch below And force the houses to curve and flow In lines of beauty there. And off to the north and east and south, With wildering mists between, They ring us round with wavering hold, With fold on fold of rose and gold, Violet, azure, and green. City’s Beauty Fair, oh, fair are the hills uncrowned, Only wreathed and garlanded With the soft clouds overhead, With the waving streams of rain; ...

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