 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
LXVI
He lies low in the level'd sand,Unshelter'd from the tropic sun,
And now, of all he knew, not one
Will speak him fair in that far land.
Perhaps 'twas this that made me seek,
Disguised, his grave one winter-tide,
A weakness for the weaker side,
A siding with the helpless weak.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |