POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
let us begin by saluting their ardent and perishable beauty. Even a magazine so specialized as ours may not omit some mention of this latest international festival, for these bubble cities are poems of our age, songs of praise that die as they are uttered and live only in memory. "I have loved flowers that fade," sang the Laureate—why may we not then love these fabrics of an hour, these "cloud-capped towers and gorgeous palaces" built not for permanence, to perpetuate the glory of kings, but for a dream's length, to express a people's aspiration. Are they mere costly extravaganzas, wasteful in life and ignoble in death—these joy cities which cost more than dreadnoughts, and flaunt their flags for a briefer season? Or is peace indeed more glorious than war, and a great festival of nations better worth its price than a battle?
What is most beautiful in San Francisco's bubble city? For me the first memorable picture was the water front, the Marina, as I emerged the first morning from the grandiloquent courts. The sun shone clear on blue bay and purple mountains, on orange domes and Spanish portals and creamy eucalyptus-shaded walls. Beyond the yacht harbor, with its crowd of little boats, rose the California Building, which, taking its motive from the old missions, is the finest design on the grounds. The tall Column of Progress lifted its salute to the sun, and the gay little caravel climbing its spiral seemed to sail off happily from its shaft into the sky.
I liked the creamy walls with their skilfully stony surface; the long, slender, drooping eucalyptus blowing its wash of green against them was as beautiful as falling waters. I
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