Complete Poetical Works. Bret Harte

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           So passed three years of their novitiate,

             The first real boyhood Grey had ever known.

           His youth ran clear,—not choked like his Cochituate,

             In civic pipes, but free and pure alone;

           Yet knew repression, could himself habituate

             To having mind and body well rubbed down,

           Could read himself in others, and could situate

             Themselves in him,—except, I grieve to own,

             He couldn't see what Kitty saw in Brown!

           At last came graduation; Brown received

             In the One Hundredth Cavalry commission;

           Then frolic, flirting, parting,—when none grieved

             Save Brown, who loved our young Academician.

           And Grey, who felt his friend was still deceived

             By Mistress Kitty, who with other beauties

           Graced the occasion, and it was believed

             Had promised Brown that when he could recruit his

             Promised command, she'd share with him those duties.

           Howe'er this was I know not; all I know,

             The night was June's, the moon rode high and clear;

           "'Twas such a night as this," three years ago,

             Miss Kitty sang the song that two might hear.

           There is a walk where trees o'erarching grow,

             Too wide for one, not wide enough for three

           (A fact precluding any plural beau),

             Which quite explained Miss Kitty's company,

             But not why Grey that favored one should be.

           There is a spring, whose limpid waters hide

             Somewhere within the shadows of that path

           Called Kosciusko's.  There two figures bide,—

             Grey and Miss Kitty.  Surely Nature hath

           No fairer mirror for a might-be bride

             Than this same pool that caught our gentle belle

           To its dark heart one moment.  At her side

             Grey bent.  A something trembled o'er the well,

             Bright, spherical—a tear?  Ah no! a button fell!

           "Material minds might think that gravitation,"

             Quoth Grey, "drew yon metallic spheroid down.

           The soul poetic views the situation

             Fraught with more meaning.  When thy girlish crown

           Was mirrored there, there was disintegration

             Of me, and all my spirit moved to you,

           Taking the form of slow precipitation!"

             But here came "Taps," a start, a smile, adieu!

             A blush, a sigh, and end of Canto II.

           Fades the light,

             And afar

           Goeth day, cometh night;

             And a star

                 Leadeth all,

                 Speedeth all

                        To their rest!

           Love, good-night!

             Must thou go

             When the day

           And the light

                 Need thee so,—

           Needeth all,

           Heedeth all,

                 That is best?

           Where the sun sinks through leagues of arid sky,

             Where the sun dies o'er leagues of arid plain,

           Where the dead bones of wasted rivers lie,

             Trailed from their channels in yon mountain chain;

           Where day by day naught takes the wearied eye

             But the low-rimming mountains, sharply based

           On the dead levels, moving far or nigh,

             As the sick vision wanders o'er the waste,

             But ever day by day against the sunset traced:

           There moving through a poisonous cloud that stings

             With dust of alkali the trampling band

           Of Indian ponies, ride on dusky wings

             The red marauders of the Western land;

           Heavy with spoil, they seek the trail that brings

             Their flaunting lances to that sheltered bank

           Where lie their lodges; and the river sings

             Forgetful of the plain beyond, that drank

             Its life blood, where the wasted caravan sank.

           They brought with them the thief's ignoble spoil,

             The beggar's dole, the greed of chiffonnier,

           The scum of camps, the implements of toil

             Snatched from dead hands, to rust as useless here;

           All they could rake or glean from hut or soil

             Piled their lean ponies, with the jackdaw's greed

           For vacant glitter.  It were scarce a foil

             To all this tinsel that one feathered reed

             Bore on its barb two scalps that freshly bleed!

           They brought with them, alas! a wounded foe,

             Bound hand and foot, yet nursed with cruel care,

           Lest that in death he might escape one throe

             They had decreed his living flesh should bear:

           A youthful officer, by one foul blow

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