And no odor of mignonette there is, But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn; And mayhap from causes as slight as this The quaint old legend is born. But the soul of that subtle, sad perfume, As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast The mummy laid in his rocky tomb, Awakens my buried past. And I think of the passion that shook my youth, Of its aimless loves and its idle pains, And am thankful now for the certain truth That only the sweet remains. And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade, And I see no face at my library door; For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, She is viewless for evermore. But whether she came as a faint perfume, Or whether a spirit in stole of white, I feel, as I pass from the darkened room, She has been with my soul to-night! SAN FRANCISCO (FROM THE SEA) Serene, indifferent of Fate, Thou sittest at the Western Gate; Upon thy height, so lately won, Still slant the banners of the sun; Thou seest the white seas strike their tents, O Warder of two continents! And, scornful of the peace that flies Thy angry winds and sullen skies, Thou drawest all things, small, or great, To thee, beside the Western Gate. O lion's whelp, that hidest fast In jungle growth of spire and mast! I know thy cunning and thy greed, Thy hard high lust and willful deed, And all thy glory loves to tell Of specious gifts material. Drop down, O Fleecy Fog, and hide Her skeptic sneer and all her pride! Wrap her, O Fog, in gown and hood Of her Franciscan Brotherhood. Hide me her faults, her sin and blame; With thy gray mantle cloak her shame! So shall she, cowled, sit and pray Till morning bears her sins away. Then rise, O Fleecy Fog, and raise The glory of her coming days; Be as the cloud that flecks the seas Above her smoky argosies; When forms familiar shall give place To stranger speech and newer face; When all her throes and anxious fears Lie hushed in the repose of years; When Art shall raise and Culture lift The sensual joys and meaner thrift, And all fulfilled the vision we Who watch and wait shall never see; Who, in the morning of her race, Toiled fair or meanly in our place, But, yielding to the common lot, Lie unrecorded and forgot. THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting, By furrowed glade and dell, To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, Thou stayest them to tell The delicate thought that cannot find expression, For ruder speech too fair, That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, And scatters on the air.