 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
IX
The dew-wet roses wept; their eyes
All dew, their breath as sweet as prayer.
And as they wept, the dead down there
Did feel their tears and hear their sighs.
All dew, their breath as sweet as prayer.
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Did feel their tears and hear their sighs.
The grass uprose, as if afraid
Some stranger foot might press too near;
Its every blade was like a spear,
Its every spear a living blade.
Some stranger foot might press too near;
Its every blade was like a spear,
Its every spear a living blade.
The grass above that nameless tomb
Stood all arrayed, as if afraid
Some weary pilgrim, seeking room
And rest, might lay where she was laid.
Stood all arrayed, as if afraid
Some weary pilgrim, seeking room
And rest, might lay where she was laid.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |