San Diego
“O for a beaker of the warm South;
The true, the blushful hypocrine!”
What shall be said of the sun-born Pueblo?
This town sudden born in the path of the sun?
This town of St. James, of the calm San Diego,
As suddenly born as if shot from a gun?
Why, speak of her warmly; why, write her name down
As softer than sunlight, as warmer than wine!
Why, speak of her bravely; this ultimate town
With feet in the foam of the vast Argentine:
The vast argent seas of the Aztec, of Cortez!
The boundless white border of battletorn lands—
The fall of Napoleon, the rise of red Juarez—
The footfalls of nations are heard on her sands.
The true, the blushful hypocrine!”
What shall be said of the sun-born Pueblo?
This town sudden born in the path of the sun?
This town of St. James, of the calm San Diego,
As suddenly born as if shot from a gun?
Why, speak of her warmly; why, write her name down
As softer than sunlight, as warmer than wine!
Why, speak of her bravely; this ultimate town
With feet in the foam of the vast Argentine:
The vast argent seas of the Aztec, of Cortez!
The boundless white border of battletorn lands—
The fall of Napoleon, the rise of red Juarez—
The footfalls of nations are heard on her sands.
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