Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/1018

 BRET HARTE

1839-1902

813. 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?