Dust always blowing about the town,
Except when sea-fog laid it down,
And I was one of the children told
Some of the blowing dust was gold.
All the dust the wind blew high
Appeared like god in the sunset sky,
But I was one of the children told
Some of the dust was really gold.
Such was life in the Golden Gate:
Gold dusted all we drank and ate,
And I was one of the children told,
We all must eat our peck of gold.
3 more days! First stop, Robert Frost Stone House. I knew his poetry before I had any idea who he was. Some of my earliest childhood memories involve apple trees and stone walls in New England (specifically New Hampshire) and a certain chipmunk with whom I shared a special kinship (he too got left out of mountain hikes).