 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
LXII
Two deep, a musket's length they stoodAfront, in sandals, grim, and dun
As death and darkness wove in one,
Their thick lips thirsting for his blood.
He took each black hand, one by one,
And, bowing with a patient grace,
Forgave them all and took his place.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |