Adios

ADIOS.

Joaquin Miller

And here, sweet friend, I go my way

Alone, as I have lived, alone

A little way, a brief half day,

And then, the restful, white milestone.

I know not surely where or when.

But surely know we meet again.

As surely know we love anew

In grander life the good and true;

Shall breathe together there as here

Some clearer, sweeter atmosphere.

Shall walk high, wider ways above

Our petty selves, shall lean to lead

Man up and up in thought and deed....

Dear soul, sweet friend, I love you, love

The love that led you patient through

This wilderness of words in quest

Of strange wild flowers from my West;

But here, dear heart. Adieu.

on great chained sea-ship chafes to be
Once more unleashed without the Gate
On proud Balboa's boundless sea,
And I chafe with her, for I hate
The rust of rest, the dull repose,
The fawning breath of changeful foes,
Whose blame through all my bitter days
I have endured; spare me their praise!
I go, full hearted, grateful, glad
Of strength from dear good mother earth;
And yet am I full sad.
II.
Could I but teach man to believe—
Could I but make small men to grow.
To break frail spider-webs that weave
About their thews and bind them low;
Could I but sing one song and slay
Grim Doubt; I then could go my way
In tranquil silence, glad, serene,
And satisfied, from off the scene.
But ah, this disbelief, this doubt,
This doubt of God, this doiibt of good,—
The damned spot will not out!
III.
Grew once a rose within my room
Of perfect hue, of perfect health;
Of such perfection and perfume,
It filled my poor house with its wealth.
Then came the pessimist who knew
Not good or grace, but overthrew
My rose, and in the broken pot
Nosed fast for slugs within the rot.
He found, found with exulting pride,
Deep in the loam, a worm, a slug;
The while my rose-tree died.
* * * * * *
IV.
Yea, ye did hurt me. Joy in this.
Receive great joy at last to know,
Since pain is all your world of bliss,
That ye did, hounding, hurt me so!
But mute as bayed stag on his steeps.
Who keeps his haunts, and, bleeding, keeps
His breast turned, watching where they come.
Kept I, defiant, and as dumb.
But comfort ye; your work was done
With devils' cunning, like the mole
That lets the life-sap run.
And my revenge? My vengeance is
That I have made one rugged spot
The fairer; that I fashioned this
While envy, hate, and falsehood shot
Rank poison; that I leave to those
Who shot, for arrows, each a rose;
Aye, labyrinths of rose and wold.
Acacias garmented in gold.
Bright fountains, where birds come to drink;
Such clouds of cunning, pretty birds,
And tame as you can think.
V.
Come here when I am far away,
Fond lovers of this lovely land.
And sit quite still and do not say.
Turn right or left, or lift a hand,
But sit beneath my kindly trees
And gaze far out yon sea of seas:—
These trees, these very stones, could tell
How long I loved them, and how well—
And maybe I shall come and sit
Beside you; sit so silently
You will not reck of it.
VI.
The old desire of far, new lands,
The thirst to learn, to still front storms,
To bend my knees, to lift my hands
To God in all His thousand forms—
These lure and lead as pleasantly
As old songs sung anew at sea.
But, storied lands or stormy deeps,
I will my ashes to my steeps—
I will my steeps, green cross, red rose,
To those who love the beautiful—
Come, learn to be of those.
* * * * * *
VII.
The sun has draped his couch in red;
Night takes the warm world in his arms
And turns to their espousal bed
To breathe the perfume of her charms:
The great sea calls, and I descend
As to the call of some strong friend.
I go, not hating any man,
But loving Earth as only can
A lover suckled at her breast
Of beauty from his babyhood,
And roam to truly rest.
VIII.
God is not far; man is not far
From Heaven's porch, where paeans roll
Man yet shall speak from star to star
In silent language of the soul;
Yon star-strewn skies be but a town,
With angels passing up and down.
"I leave my peace with you." Lo! these
His seven wounds, the Pleiades
Pierce Heaven's porch. But, resting there.
The new moon rocks the Child Christ in
Her silver rocking-chair.

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Poetry

ADIOS.

Joaquin Miller