Best Famous Joaquin Miller Poems

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Written by Joaquin Miller | The Yukon THE moon resumed all heaven now, She shepherded the stars below Along her wide, white steeps of snow, Nor stooped nor rested, where or how. She bared her full white breast, she dared The sun e'er show his face again. She seemed to know no change, she kept Carousal constantly, nor slept, Nor turned aside a breath, nor spared The fearful meaning, the mad pain, The weary eyes, the poor dazed brain, That came at last to feel, to see The dread, dead touch of lunacy. How loud the silence! Oh, how loud! How more than beautiful the shroud Of dead Light in the moon-mad north When great torch-tipping stars stand forth Above the black, slow-moving pall As at some fearful funeral! The moon blares as mad trumpets blare To marshaled warriors long and loud; The cobalt blue knows not a cloud, But oh, beware that moon, beware Her ghostly, graveyard, moon-mad stare! Beware white silence more than white! Beware the five-horned starry rune; Beware the groaning gorge below; Beware the wide, white world of snow, Where trees hang white as hooded nun-- No thing not white, not one, not one! But most beware that mad white moon. All day, all day, all night, all night Nay, nay, not yet or night or day. Just whiteness, whiteness, ghastly white, Made doubly white by that mad moon And strange stars jangled out of tune! At last, he saw, or seemed to see, Above, beyond, another world. Far up the ice-hung path there curled A red-veined cloud, a canopy That topt the fearful ice-built peak That seemed to prop the very porch Of God's house; then, as if a torch Burned fierce, there flushed a fiery streak, A flush, a blush, on heaven's cheek! The dogs sat down, men sat the sled And watched the flush, the blush of red. The little wooly dogs, they knew, Yet scarcely knew what they were about. They thrust their noses up and out, They drank the Light, what else to do? Their little feet, so worn, so true, Could scarcely keep quiet for delight. They knew, they knew, how much they knew The mighty breaking up of night! Their bright eyes sparkled with such joy That they at last should see loved Light! The tandem sudden broke all rule; Swung back, each leaping like a boy Let loose from some dark, ugly school-- Leaped up and tried to lick his hand-- Stood up as happy children stand. How tenderly God's finger set His crimson flower on that height Above the battered walls of night! A little space it flourished yet, And then His angel, His first-born, Burst through, as on that primal morn!

Written by Joaquin Miller | Sea-blown AH! there be souls none understand; Like clouds, they cannot touch the land. Unanchored ships, they blow and blow, Sail to and fro, and then go down In unknown seas that none shall know, Without one ripple of renown. Call these not fools, the test of worth Is not the hold you have of earth. Ay, there be gentlest souls sea-blown That know not any harbor known. Now it may be the reason is, They touch on fairer shores than this.

Written by Joaquin Miller | Byron IN men whom men condemn as ill I find so much of goodness still, In men whom men pronounce divine I find so much of sin and blot, I do not dare to draw a line Between the two, where God has not.

Written by Joaquin Miller | From "Byron" In men whom men condemn as ill I find so much of goodness still, In men whom men pronounce divine I find so much of sin and blot, I do not dare to draw a line Between the two, where God has not.

Written by Joaquin Miller | By The Pacific Ocean Here room and kingly silence keep Companionship in state austere; The dignity of death is here, The large, lone vastness of the deep. Here toil has pitched his camp to rest: The west is banked against the west. Above yon gleaming skies of gold One lone imperial peak is seen; While gathered at his feet in green Ten thousand foresters are told. And all so still! so still the air That duty drops the web of care. 24Beneath the sunset’s golden sheaves The awful deep walks with the deep, Where silent sea-doves slip and sweep, And commerce keeps her loom and weaves. The dead red men refuse to rest; Their ghosts illume my lurid West.

Written by Joaquin Miller | Crossing The Plains What great yoked brutes with briskets low, With wrinkled necks like buffalo, With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes, That turn’d so slow and sad to you, That shone like love’s eyes soft with tears, That seem’d to plead, and make replies, The while they bow’d their necks and drew The creaking load; and looked at you. Their sable briskets swept the ground, Their cloven feet kept solemn sound. Two sullen bullocks led the line, Their great eyes shining bright like wine; Two sullen captive kings were they, That had in time held herds at bay, And even now they crush’d the sod 25With stolid sense of majesty, And stately stepp’d and stately trod, As if ’twere something still to be Kings even in captivity.