 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
XI
The bronzen, stolid, still, black menTheir black-maned horses silent drew
Through solemn wood. One midnight when
The curl'd moon tipp'd her horn, and threw
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A low mound hid in leaves and moss,
Old Morgan cautious came and drew
From out the ground, as from a grave,
Great bags, all copper-bound and old,
And fill'd, men say, with pirates' gold.
And then they, silent as a dream,
In long black shadow cross'd the stream.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |