Joaquin Miller's Poems [in six volumes] |
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| 18. | XVIII |
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 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
XVIII
And yet I could not lift a hand,
But drooped and sank upon the sand.
I tried, I tried, I could not rise,
I could not open my dull eyes.
And all the time that dog kept on,
A dog that never would be gone!
But drooped and sank upon the sand.
I tried, I tried, I could not rise,
I could not open my dull eyes.
And all the time that dog kept on,
A dog that never would be gone!
It made me sleep, it made me dream—
That drum seemed some deep orchestra
Where I could see sweet players play,
Low-voiced; then sudden all did seem
A coarse and cruel tragedy.
Red lightning lit the ample stage;
Black thunder thrust italics through
The bloody text, then in his rage,
As if not knowing what to do,
Turned back and hewed with such mad stroke
My mighty trees that I awoke.
That drum seemed some deep orchestra
Where I could see sweet players play,
Low-voiced; then sudden all did seem
A coarse and cruel tragedy.
Red lightning lit the ample stage;
Black thunder thrust italics through
The bloody text, then in his rage,
As if not knowing what to do,
Turned back and hewed with such mad stroke
My mighty trees that I awoke.
How I had slept! just clay and clod.
For all the living, all the dead,
The might, the majesty of God,
The hideous, haunting death, the dread—
I could but hear that monodin,
That monster alligator skin
Right on, right on, dog-like and deep,
And sleep right on, and sleep and sleep!
For all the living, all the dead,
The might, the majesty of God,
The hideous, haunting death, the dread—
I could but hear that monodin,
That monster alligator skin
Right on, right on, dog-like and deep,
And sleep right on, and sleep and sleep!
I thrust, thrust hard out either hand:
All still, all chill! I was alone!
And she had sold me, my command!
At sun the sacrificial stone;
And then no more that horrid drum—
Why had she gone? where had she gone?
I tried to hope she yet might come—
The while that drum beat on and on!
All still, all chill! I was alone!
27
At sun the sacrificial stone;
And then no more that horrid drum—
Why had she gone? where had she gone?
I tried to hope she yet might come—
The while that drum beat on and on!
A finger to her lip, then sand
She plucked and let it sift and run
And pointed sunward, ere the sun!
So many? and they come so soon?
The sky was spotted, rain and moon,
But with the first cloud we were gone;
The while that bull-dog barked right on!
She plucked and let it sift and run
And pointed sunward, ere the sun!
So many? and they come so soon?
The sky was spotted, rain and moon,
But with the first cloud we were gone;
The while that bull-dog barked right on!
He, waiting, leaned and caught her hand,
She stooped, took up, let fall the sand
Then pointed sunward, ere the sun—
A sign, and that brave, worn, guard line,
Swift, single file, still as the dead,
They passed with mournful, martial tread,
Paced back that midnight track again,
A piteous line of blood and pain:
Yet not one man there to repine,
Not one impatient word, not one.
She stooped, took up, let fall the sand
Then pointed sunward, ere the sun—
A sign, and that brave, worn, guard line,
Swift, single file, still as the dead,
They passed with mournful, martial tread,
Paced back that midnight track again,
A piteous line of blood and pain:
Yet not one man there to repine,
Not one impatient word, not one.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |