 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
I
More marches through brown mesa, wood,More marches through too much blood,
And then at last sweet inland seas.
A city there, white-walled, and brown
With age, in nest of orange trees;
And this we won and many a town
And rancho reaching up and down,
Then rested long, sweet, sultry days
Beneath the blossom'd orange trees,
Made drowsy with the hum of bees,
And drank in peace the south-sea breeze,
Made sweet with sweeping bough of bays.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |