Joaquin Miller's poems . ht be?Twas he! His face was leaning to her face!I clutchd my blade; I sprang, I caught my breath,—And so, stood leaning cold and still as they stood still. She blushed, then reachd and toreThe lily as she passd, and down the floorShe strewd its heart like jets of gushing Twas he said heads, not hearts, were made to break:He taught her this that night in splendid learnd too well The dance was done, ere morn We mounted—he and I—^but no more spake And this for womans love! My lily wornIn her dark hair in pride, to then be tornAnd trampled on, for
Joaquin Miller's poems . ht be?Twas he! His face was leaning to her face!I clutchd my blade; I sprang, I caught my breath,—And so, stood leaning cold and still as they stood still. She blushed, then reachd and toreThe lily as she passd, and down the floorShe strewd its heart like jets of gushing Twas he said heads, not hearts, were made to break:He taught her this that night in splendid learnd too well The dance was done, ere morn We mounted—he and I—^but no more spake And this for womans love! My lily wornIn her dark hair in pride, to then be tornAnd trampled on, for this bold strangers sake! Two men rode silent back toward the lake;[30] SONGS OF ITALY AND OTHERS Two men rode silent down—but only oneRode up at morn to meet the rising sun. The red-clad fishers row and creepBelow the crags as half ever make a single walls are steep,The waves are deep;And if a dead man should be foundBy these same fishers in their round,Why, who shall say but he was drownd?. [31] SONGS OF ITALY AND OTHERS SUNRISE IN VENICE Night seems troubled and scarce asleep;Her brows are gatherd as in broken star in the east starts up from the deep!Tis morn, new-botn, with a star on her breast,White as my lilies that grow in the West!Hist! men are passing me see the yellow, wide wings of a bark,Sail silently over my morning see men move in the moving and silent as columns are;Great, sinewy men that are good to see,With hair pushd back, and with open breasts;Barefooted fishermen, seeking their boats,Brown as walnuts, and hairy as goats,—Brave old water-dogs, wed to the to their labors and last to their rests. Ships are moving. I hear a horn,—Answers back, and again it the sentinel boats that watch the townAll night, as mountimg her watery watching for pirate or smuggler. DownOver the sea, and reaching against the east, a soft light soft as the mist of m
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