In all his island, old and dim,
To answer back or question him.

I turned, retraced my steps once more. The hot miasma steamed and rose In deadly vapor from the reeds

That grew from out the shallow shore, Where peasants say the sea-horse feeds, And Neptune shapes his horn and blows.

I climbed and sat that throne of stone To contemplate, to dream, to reign, Ay, reign above myself; to call The people of the past again

Before me as I sat alone

In all my kingdom.

There were kine

That browsed along the reedy brine,

And now and then a tusky boar

Would shake the high reeds of the shore,

A bird blows by - but that was all.

I watched the lonesome sea-gull pass.

I did remember and forget;
The past rolled by ; I stood alone.
I sat the shapely chiselled stone
That stands in tall sweet grasses set;
Ay, girdle deep in long strong grass,
And green Alfalfa.

Very fair

The heavens were, and still and blue,

For Nature knows no changes there.
The Alps of Venice, far away
Like some half-risen half-moon lay.

How sweet the grasses at my feet!
The smell of clover over sweet.

I heard the hum of bees. The bloom
Of clover-tops and cherry-trees

Were being rifled by the bees,
And these were building in a tomb.

The fair Alfalfa; such as has
Usurped the Occident, and grows
With all the sweetness of the rose
On Sacramento's sundown hills,
Is there, and that mid island fills
With fragrance. Yet the smell of death
Comes riding in on every breath.

Lo! death that is not death, but rest: To step aside, to watch and wait Beside the wave, outside the gate, With all life's pulses in your breast; To absolutely rest, to pray

In some lone mountain while you may.

That sad, sweet fragrance. It had sense And sound and voice. It was a part Of that which had possessed my heart, And would not of my will go hence.

"T was Autumn's breath; 't was dear as kiss

Of any worshipped woman is.

Some snails have climbed the throne and writ Their silver monograms on it

In unknown tongues.

I sat thereon,

I dreamed until the day was gone;
I blew again my pearly shell,-
Blew long and strong, and loud and well;
I puffed my cheeks, I blew, as when
Horned satyrs danced the delight of men.

Some mouse-brown cows that fed within
Looked up. A cowherd rose hard by,
My single subject, clad in skin,
Nor yet half clad. I caught his eye,
He stared at me, then turned and fled.
He frightened fled, and as he ran,
Like wild beast from the face of man,
Across his shoulder threw his head.
He gathered up his skin of goat
About his breast and hairy throat.

He stopped, and then this subject true,
Mine only one in hands like these
Made desolate by changeful seas,
Came back and asked me for a sou.

Joaquin Miller.

TORCELLO AGAIN.

ND yet again through the watery miles.

AND

Of reeds I rowed till the desolate isles Of the black bead-makers of Venice are not. I touched where a single sharp tower is shot To heaven, and torn by thunder and rent As if it had been Time's battlement. A city lies dead, and this great gravestone Stands at its head like a ghost alone.

Some cherry-trees grow here, and here An old church, simple and severe In ancient aspect, stands alone Amid the ruin and decay, all grown In moss and grasses. Old and quaint, With antique cuts of martyred saint, The gray church stands with stooping knees, Defying the decay of seas.

Her pictured Hell, with flames blown high,

In bright mosaics wrought and set
When man first knew the Nubian art,
Her bearded saints, as black as jet;
Her quaint Madonna, dim with rain
And touch of pious lips of pain,
So touched my lonesome soul, that I
Gazed long, then came and gazed again,
And loved, and took her to my heart.

Nor monk in black, nor Capuchin,
Nor priest of any creed was seen.
A sun-browned woman, old and tall,
And still as any shadow is,

Stole forth from out the mossy wall

With massive keys, to show me this;
Came slowly forth, and following,

Three birds, and all with drooping wing.

Three mute brown babes of hers; and they, O, they were beautiful as sleep,

Or death, below the troubled deep.
And on the pouting lips of these
Red corals of the silent seas,
Sweet birds, the everlasting seal
Of silence that the God has set
On this dead island sits for aye.

I would forget, yet not forget,
Their helpless eloquence. They creep
Somehow into my heart, and keep
One bleak, cold corner, jewel set.
They steal my better self away
To them, as little birds that day
Stole fruits from out the cherry-trees.

So helpless and so wholly still,
So sad, so wrapped in mute surprise,
That I did love, despite my will.
One little maid of ten-such eyes,
So large and lonely, so divine,