Palm Trees in the Fog

I sing a song of California.
I sing a song of all I love.
I see the trees,
The sand,
The dove.
I sing a song of California.

I hold the mountains in my hand,
And lat them gently in the sand.
All this time I churn the seas,
Before the sun upon my knees.

From the woods down to the beach,
All beauty lies within my reach.
I am the queen of this vast land,
And still a beggar where I stand.

I sing a song of California.
I sing a song of all I love.
I see the palm trees in the fog.
I hold the sands,
The breeze,
The dove.
I sing a song of California.

Come, O sacred desert stone,
Your old face my eyes have known.
Stand tall before the scathing winds,
Scold the grass which gently bends.

When I long for cooler clime,
Into the mountains shall I climb.
Where the snow and brook all shine,
Upon these lips they turn to wine.

I sing a song of California.
I sing a song of all I love.
I see the palm trees in the fog.
I grasp the isle,
The hawk,
The dove.
I sing a song of California,
With all these palm trees in the fog.

Here the child on my knees,
Sleeps and dreams of the free.
All their faces call my name,
While the ocean does the same.

I sing my song of California.
I sing my song of all I love.
I see the palm trees in the fog.
I kiss the cheek,
The earth,
The dove.
I sing a song of California,
With all these palm trees in the fog.