Joaquin Miller's Poems [in six volumes] |
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LOVE IN THE SIERRAS |
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 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
93
LOVE IN THE SIERRAS
“No, not so lonely now—I love
A forest maiden; she is mine
And on Sierras' slopes of pine,
The vines below, the snows above,
A solitary lodge is set
Within a fringe of water'd firs;
And there my wigwam fires burn,
Fed by a round brown patient hand,
That small brown faithful hand of hers
That never rests till my return.
The yellow smoke is rising yet;
Tiptoe, and see it where you stand
Lift like a column from the land.
A forest maiden; she is mine
And on Sierras' slopes of pine,
The vines below, the snows above,
A solitary lodge is set
Within a fringe of water'd firs;
And there my wigwam fires burn,
Fed by a round brown patient hand,
That small brown faithful hand of hers
That never rests till my return.
The yellow smoke is rising yet;
Tiptoe, and see it where you stand
Lift like a column from the land.
“There are no sea-gems in her hair,
No jewels fret her dimpled hands,
And half her bronzen limbs are bare.
Her round brown arms have golden bands,
Broad, rich, and by her cunning hands
Cut from the yellow virgin ore,
And she does not desire more.
I wear the beaded wampum belt
That she has wove—the sable pelt
That she has fringed red threads around;
And in the morn, when men are not,
I wake the valley with the shot
That brings the brown deer to the ground.
And she beside the lodge at noon
Sings with the wind, while baby swings
In sea-shell cradle by the bough—
Sings low, so like the clover sings
With swarm of bees; I hear her now,
I see her sad face through the moon ...
Such songs!—would earth had more of such!
She has not much to say, and she
Lifts never voice to question me
In aught I do ... and that is much.
I love her for her patient trust,
And my love's forty-fold return—
A value I have not to learn
As you ... at least, as many must ...
No jewels fret her dimpled hands,
And half her bronzen limbs are bare.
Her round brown arms have golden bands,
Broad, rich, and by her cunning hands
Cut from the yellow virgin ore,
And she does not desire more.
I wear the beaded wampum belt
That she has wove—the sable pelt
That she has fringed red threads around;
And in the morn, when men are not,
I wake the valley with the shot
That brings the brown deer to the ground.
And she beside the lodge at noon
Sings with the wind, while baby swings
In sea-shell cradle by the bough—
Sings low, so like the clover sings
With swarm of bees; I hear her now,
I see her sad face through the moon ...
94
She has not much to say, and she
Lifts never voice to question me
In aught I do ... and that is much.
I love her for her patient trust,
And my love's forty-fold return—
A value I have not to learn
As you ... at least, as many must ...
... “She is not over tall or fair;
Her breasts are curtained by her hair,
And sometimes, through the silken fringe,
I see her bosom's wealth, like wine
Burst through in luscious ruddy tinge—
And all its wealth and worth are mine.
I know not that one drop of blood
Of prince or chief is in her veins:
I simply say that she is good,
And loves me with pure womanhood.
... When that is said, why, what remains?”
Her breasts are curtained by her hair,
And sometimes, through the silken fringe,
I see her bosom's wealth, like wine
Burst through in luscious ruddy tinge—
And all its wealth and worth are mine.
I know not that one drop of blood
Of prince or chief is in her veins:
I simply say that she is good,
And loves me with pure womanhood.
... When that is said, why, what remains?”
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |