Joaquin Miller's Poems [in six volumes] |
1. |
2. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
16. |
17. |
18. |
19. |
20. |
21. |
22. |
23. |
24. |
25. |
26. |
27. |
28. |
29. |
30. |
31. |
32. |
33. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
16. |
17. |
18. |
19. |
20. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
16. |
17. |
18. |
19. |
20. |
21. |
22. |
23. |
24. |
25. |
26. |
27. |
28. |
29. |
30. |
31. |
32. |
33. |
34. |
35. |
36. |
37. |
38. |
39. |
40. |
41. |
42. |
43. |
44. |
45. |
46. |
47. |
48. |
49. |
50. |
51. |
52. |
53. |
54. |
55. |
56. |
57. |
58. |
59. |
60. |
61. |
62. |
63. |
64. |
65. |
66. |
67. |
68. |
69. |
70. |
71. |
72. |
73. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
16. |
17. |
18. |
19. |
20. |
21. |
22. |
23. |
24. |
25. |
26. |
27. |
28. |
29. |
30. |
31. |
32. |
33. |
34. |
35. |
36. |
37. |
38. |
39. |
40. |
41. |
42. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
16. |
17. |
18. |
19. |
20. |
21. |
22. |
23. |
24. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
1. |
2. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
4. |
5. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
16. |
17. |
18. |
19. |
20. |
21. |
22. |
23. |
24. |
25. |
26. |
27. |
28. |
29. |
30. |
31. |
32. |
33. |
34. |
2. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
3. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
4. |
1. |
2. |
1. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
Joaquin Miller's Poems | ||
“On the fringe of the night she stood with her pitcher
At the old town fountain: and oh! passing fair.
‘I am riper now,’ I said, ‘but am richer,’
And I lifted my hand to my beard and hair;
‘I am burnt by the sun, I am brown'd by the sea;
I am white of my beard, and am bald, may be;
Yet for all such things what can her heart care?’
Then she moved; and I said, ‘How marvelous fair!’
She look'd to the West, with her arm arch'd over;
‘Looking for me, her sun-brown'd lover,’
I said to myself, and my heart grew bold,
And I stepp'd me nearer to her presence there,
As approaching a friend; for 'twas here of old
Our troths were plighted and the tale was told.
At the old town fountain: and oh! passing fair.
‘I am riper now,’ I said, ‘but am richer,’
And I lifted my hand to my beard and hair;
‘I am burnt by the sun, I am brown'd by the sea;
I am white of my beard, and am bald, may be;
Yet for all such things what can her heart care?’
Then she moved; and I said, ‘How marvelous fair!’
She look'd to the West, with her arm arch'd over;
‘Looking for me, her sun-brown'd lover,’
I said to myself, and my heart grew bold,
And I stepp'd me nearer to her presence there,
As approaching a friend; for 'twas here of old
Our troths were plighted and the tale was told.
Joaquin Miller's Poems | ||