by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

    The changing light

    at San Francisco

    is none of your East Coast light

    none of your

    pearly light of Paris

    The light of San Francisco

    is a sea light

    an island light

    And the light of fog

    blanketing the hills

    drifting in at night

    through the Golden Gate

    to lie on the city at dawn

    And then the halcyon late mornings

    after the fog burns off

    and the sun paints white houses

    with the sea light of Greece

    with sharp clean shadows

    making the town look like

    it had just been painted

    But the wind comes up at four o'clock

    sweeping the hills

    And then the veil of light of early evening

    And then another scrim

    when the new night fog

    floats in

    And in that vale of light

    the city drifts

    anchorless upon the ocean