By Golden Bay

Now we have dared to come out West
Minerva see, in summer dressed
Goddess proud who holds out her hands
To those too lost for other lands.

For us she paves the hardest roads
Yet stocks their ends with silver lodes
Draws round us fog, like cotton sheets
Then leaves us dimes in cabled streets.

And so each day we cast our lot
With her whose favor emp’rors sought
And who each sunset seems to say:
“I lift my lamp by golden bay.”