The ten gold suns are so blasting The sunstruck scoot for the sea And turn to mermen and mermaids And whoop that their souls are free. (_Limber, double-jointed lords of fate, Proud native sons of the Golden Gate._) And they take young whales for their bronchos And old whales for their steeds, Harnessed with golden seaweeds, And driven with golden reeds. They dance on the shore throwing roseleaves. They kiss all night throwing hearts. They fight like scalded wildcats When the least bit of fighting starts. They drink, these belly-busting devils And their tremens shake the ground. And then they repent like whirlwinds And never were such saints found. They will give you their plug tobacco. They will give you the shirts off their backs. They will cry for your every sorrow, Put ham in your haversacks. And they feed the cuttlefishes, whales and skates With dates and figs in bales and crates:-- Shiploads of sweet potatoes, peanuts, rutabagas, Honey in hearts of gourds: Grapefruits and oranges barrelled with apples, And spices like sharp sweet swords. _Part III. St. Francis of San Francisco_ But the surf is white, down the long strange coast With breasts that shake with sighs, And the ocean of all oceans Holds salt from weary eyes. St. Francis comes to his city at night And stands in the brilliant electric light And his swans that prophesy night and day Would soothe his heart that wastes away: The giant swans of California That nest on the Golden Gate And beat through the clouds serenely And on St. Francis wait. But St. Francis shades his face in his cowl And stands in the street like a lost grey owl. He thinks of _gold_ ... _gold_. He sees on far redwoods Dewfall and dawning: Deep in Yosemite Shadows and shrines: He hears from far valleys Prayers by young Christians, He sees their due penance So cruel, so cold; He sees them made holy, White-souled like young aspens With whimsies and fancies untold:-- _The opposite of gold_. And the mighty mountain swans of California Whose eggs are like mosque domes of Ind, Cry with curious notes That their eggs are good for boats To toss upon the foam and the wind. He beholds on far rivers The venturesome lovers Sailing for the sea All night In swanshells white. He sees them far on the ocean prevailing In a year and a month and a day of sailing Leaving the whales and their whoop unfailing On through the lightning, ice and confusion North of the North Pole, South of the South Pole, And west of the west of the west of the west, To the shore of Heartache’s Cure, _The opposite of gold_, On and on like Columbus With faith and eggshell sure. _Part IV. The Voice of the Earthquake_ But what is the earthquake’s cry at last Making St. Francis yet aghast:-- [Sidenote: From here on, the audience joins in the refrain:--“_gold, gold, gold_.”]