 | 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 | |