In thy still haze of golden light,
The masted ships float out of sight;
The merchandise of distant shores,
The light skiff with its dripping oars,
The steaming tug with all the strife
The laboring pant of present life,
All, all serenely pass the strait
Lost in thy haze, O Golden Gate.
Upon the nearer billows crest
My bark drifts on, in wild unrest;
The swelling wave, the pitch, the heave,
Around the sobbing waters grieve,
While onward through the Golden Gate
The ships still pass in tranquil state;
Till Love, which fain would Hope believe,
Cries, "Can those distant waves deceive?"