Joaquin Miller's Poems | ||
39
XXX
Ills come not singly, birds of preyFlock not more closely on than they;
Ill comes disguised in many forms;
Fair winds are but a prophecy
Of foulest winds full soon to be—
The brighter these, the blacker they;
The brightest night has darkest day
And brightest days bring blackest storms.
Joaquin Miller's Poems | ||