 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
I
The poet shall create or kill,
Bid heroes live, bid braggarts die.
I look against a lurid sky,—
My silent South lies proudly still.
Bid heroes live, bid braggarts die.
I look against a lurid sky,—
My silent South lies proudly still.
The fading light of burning lands
Still climbs to God's house overhead;
Mute women wring white, withered hands;
Their eyes are red, their skies are red.
Still climbs to God's house overhead;
Mute women wring white, withered hands;
Their eyes are red, their skies are red.
179
And we still boast our bitter wars!
Still burn and boast, and boast and lie
But God's white finger spins the stars
In calm dominion of the sky.
Still burn and boast, and boast and lie
But God's white finger spins the stars
In calm dominion of the sky.
And not one ray of light the less
Comes down to bid the grasses spring;
No drop of dew nor anything
Shall fail for all our bitterness.
Comes down to bid the grasses spring;
No drop of dew nor anything
Shall fail for all our bitterness.
If man grows large, is God the less?
The moon shall rise and set the same,
The great sun spill his splendid flame,
And clothe the world in queenliness.
The moon shall rise and set the same,
The great sun spill his splendid flame,
And clothe the world in queenliness.
Yea, from that very blood-soaked sod
Some large-souled, seeing youth shall come
Some day, and he shall not be dumb
Before the awful court of God.
Some large-souled, seeing youth shall come
Some day, and he shall not be dumb
Before the awful court of God.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |