 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
XIV
The sky is like an opal sea,
The air is like the breath of kine;
But oh, her face is white, and she
Leans faint to see a lifted sign,—
The air is like the breath of kine;
But oh, her face is white, and she
Leans faint to see a lifted sign,—
To see two hands lift up and wave,—
To see a face so white with woe,
So ghastly, hollow, white as though
It had that moment left the grave.
To see a face so white with woe,
So ghastly, hollow, white as though
It had that moment left the grave.
Her sweet face at that ghostly sign,
Her fair face in her weight of hair,
Is like a white dove drowning there,—
A white dove drowned in Tuscan wine.
Her fair face in her weight of hair,
Is like a white dove drowning there,—
A white dove drowned in Tuscan wine.
He tries to stand, to stand erect;
'T is gold, 't is gold that holds him down!
And soul and body both must drown,—
Two millstones tied about his neck.
'T is gold, 't is gold that holds him down!
And soul and body both must drown,—
Two millstones tied about his neck.
Now once again his piteous face
Is raised to her face reaching there
He prays such piteous silent prayer,
As prays a dying man for grace.
Is raised to her face reaching there
He prays such piteous silent prayer,
As prays a dying man for grace.
202
It is not good to see him strain
To lift his hands, to gasp, to try
To speak. His parched lips are so dry
Their sight is as a living pain,
To lift his hands, to gasp, to try
To speak. His parched lips are so dry
Their sight is as a living pain,
I think that rich man down in hell
Some like this old man with his gold,—
To gasp and gasp perpetual,
Like to this minute I have told.
Some like this old man with his gold,—
To gasp and gasp perpetual,
Like to this minute I have told.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |