 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
Then sang of free life with a will, and well,
They had paid for it well when the price was blood;
They beat on the shield, and they blew on the shell,
When their wars were not, for they held it good
To be glad, and to sing till the flush of the day,
In an annual feast, when the broad leaves fell;
Yet some sang not, and some sighed, “Ah, well!”—
For there's far less left you to sing or to say,
When mettlesome love is banish'd, I ween—
To hint at as hidden, or to half disclose
In the swift sword-cuts of the tongue, made keen
With wine at a feast,—than one would suppose.
They had paid for it well when the price was blood;
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When their wars were not, for they held it good
To be glad, and to sing till the flush of the day,
In an annual feast, when the broad leaves fell;
Yet some sang not, and some sighed, “Ah, well!”—
For there's far less left you to sing or to say,
When mettlesome love is banish'd, I ween—
To hint at as hidden, or to half disclose
In the swift sword-cuts of the tongue, made keen
With wine at a feast,—than one would suppose.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |