 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
XXXIV
The silence is as when your deadLies waiting, candles foot and head,
When mourners turn them slowly back
With all their sad, sweet prayers said.
The sea is black, the shore is black
Below Granada's storied steep,
Save where red trumpet blossoms blow
And trumpet, trumpet night and day,
For brave brown soldiers far away
In battle for this dreamful deep
Where silent women come and go.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |