Joaquin Miller's Poems [in six volumes] |
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Joaquin Miller's Poems | ||
XXX
Far in a wildest quinine woodWe found a city old—so old
Its very walls were turned to mould
And stately trees upon them stood.
No history has mentioned it,
No map has given it a place;
The last dim trace of tribe and race—
The world's forgetfulness is fit.
Joaquin Miller's Poems | ||