 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
LXIV
Speak ill who will of him, he diedIn all disgrace, say of the dead
His heart was black, his hands were red—
Say this much and be satisfied;
Gloat over it all undenied.
I simply say he was my friend
When strong of hand and fair of fame:
Dead and disgraced, I stand the same
To him, and so shall to the end.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |