Joaquin Miller's Gedichte. weet Vögel, den ewigen Dichtungder Stille, der Gott dieser tote Insel setOn hat für Aye sitzt. Ich würde vergessen, doch nicht forgetTheir hilflos Beredsamkeit. Sie creepSomehow in mein Herz, und keepOne trüben, kalten Ecke, Juwel. Sie stehlen Mein besseres Selbst awayTo, wie kleine Vögel, die dayStole Früchte aus den Cherry-Bäume. So hilflos und so völlig still. So traurig, so stumm Überraschung wrapt., Dass ich Liebe, trotz meiner wird. Ein kleines Mädchen von zehn - wie Augen. So gross und schön, so göttlich Wie schmollen, Lippen, wie pearly Wange! Hat Ihre perfekte Augen zu meinen Aufzug. Bis unser

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Joaquin Miller's poems . weet birds, the everlasting sealOf silence that the God has setOn this dead island sits for aye. I would forget, yet not forgetTheir helpless eloquence. They creepSomehow into my heart, and keepOne bleak, cold corner, jewel set.They steal my better self awayTo them, as little birds that dayStole fruits from out the cherry-trees. So helpless and so wholly still.So sad, so wrapt in mute surprise.That I did love, despite my will.One little maid of ten—such eyes.So large and lovely, so divine!Such pouting lips, such pearly cheek!Did lift her perfect eyes to mine.Until our souls did touch and speak—Stood by me all that perfect day.Yet not one sweet word could she say. [S3] SONGS OF ITALY AND OTHERS She turnd her melancholy eyesSo constant to my own, that IForgot the going clouds, the sky;Found fellowship, took bread and wine:And so her little soul and mineStood very near together there.And oh, I found her very fair!Yet not one soft word could she say:What did she think of all that day?. [54] SONGS OF ITALY AND OTHERS IN A GONDOLA Twas night in Venice. Then down to the tide.Where a tall and a shadowy gondolierLeand on his oar, like a lifted spear;—Twas night in Venice; then side by sideWe sat in his boat. Then oar a-tripOn the black boats keel, then dip and dip, These boatmen should build their boats more wide.For we were together, and side by side. The sea it was level as seas of light.As still as the light ere a hand was laidTo the making of lands, or the seas were made.Twas fond as a bride on her bridal nightWhen a great love swells in her soul like a sea.And makes her but less than divinity.Twas night, —The soul of the day, I wis.A womans face hiding from her first kiss. Ah, how one wanders! Yet after it all. To laugh at all lovers and to learn to scoff....When you really have naught of account to say.It is better, perhaps, to pull leaves by the way;Watch the round moon rise, or the red stars fall;And then, too, in Venice! dear, moth-eat

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• bookcentury1900
• bookdecade1900
• bookidcu31924022110880
• bookpubl