Poem by Francis Bret Harte

What the Bullet Sang

     O joy of creation
           To be!
     O rapture to fly
           And be free!
     Be the battle lost or won,
     Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
     I shall find my love,--the one
           Born for me!

     I shall know him where he stands,
           All alone,
     With the power in his hands
           Not o'erthrown;
     I shall know him by his face,
     By his godlike front and grace;
     I shall hold him for a space,
           All my own!

     It is he--O my love!
           So bold!
     It is I--all thy love
           Foretold!
     It is I.  O love! what bliss!
     Dost thou answer to my kiss?
     O sweetheart! what is this
           Lieth there so cold?

1. ”Twenty Years”
2. Half an Hour before Supper
3. The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin
4. ”How Are You, Sanitary?”
5. Lone Mountain

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