I did not love them overmuch
Till I had turned away,
But now they glimmer thro’ my dreams,
They haunt the summer day―
The low brown hills, the bare brown hills
Of San Francisco Bay.
My heart aches for their barrenness,
Their browns veined thro’ with gray;
No tree where some sweet Western bird
Might sit and sing his lay―
But low brown hills and bare brown hills
Of San Francisco Bay.
Not one slim blade of living green
To make the soft slopes gay;
No dim secluded forest dells
Where one might kneel and pray―
But low brown hills and bare brown hills
Of San Francisco Bay.
But ah, their hold upon my heart
Now I am far away!
They glimmer thro’ my dreams at night,
They haunt the summer day―
The low brown hills, the bare brown hills
Of San Francisco Bay.
Tell me the secret of this charm
That ever night and day,
From greener lands and sweeter lands
Draws thought and dream away
To the low brown hills, the bare brown hills
Of San Francisco Bay.
“The Low Brown Hills” as it appears in Higginson’s When the Birds Go North Again (1898).