Crossing The Plains

Joaquin Miller

  • 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 look'd 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
  • With stolid sense of majesty,
  • And stately stepp'd and stately trod,
  • As if 'twere something still to be
  • Kings even in captivity.