 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
LXIII
He bared his broad brow pleasantly,
Gave one long, last look to the sky,
The white-winged clouds that hurried by,
The olive hills in orange hue;
A last list to the cockatoo
That hung by beak from mango-bough
Hard by and hung and cried as though
He never was to call again,
Hung all red-crowned and robed in green,
With belts of gold and blue between.—
Gave one long, last look to the sky,
The white-winged clouds that hurried by,
The olive hills in orange hue;
A last list to the cockatoo
That hung by beak from mango-bough
Hard by and hung and cried as though
52
Hung all red-crowned and robed in green,
With belts of gold and blue between.—
A bow, a touch of heart, a pall
Of purple smoke, a crash, a thud,
A warrior's raiment rolled in blood,
A face in dust and—that was all.
Of purple smoke, a crash, a thud,
A warrior's raiment rolled in blood,
A face in dust and—that was all.
Success had made him more than king;
Defeat made him the vilest thing
In name, contempt or hate can bring;
So much the leaden dice of war
Do make or mar of character.
Defeat made him the vilest thing
In name, contempt or hate can bring;
So much the leaden dice of war
Do make or mar of character.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |