The wound-spots long ago have left 

 his shaggy coat, but the earmarks still 

 are there, the ponderous strength, the 

 elephantine dignity. His eyes are dull, 

 never were bright, but they seem 

 not vacant, and most often fixed on the 

 Golden Gate where the river seeks 

 the sea. 



The river, born in high Sierra's 

 flank, that lived and rolled and grew, 

 through mountain pines, overleaping 

 man-made barriers, then to reach 

 with growing power the plains and 

 bring its mighty flood at last to the 

 Bay of Bays, a prisoner there to lie, 

 the prisoner of the Golden Gate, seek- 

 ing forever Freedom's Blue, seeking 

 and raging raging and seeking 

 back and forth, forever in vain. 



