IN THE SIERRAS
Joaquin Miller
o, not so lonely now—I love
- A forest maiden: she is mine
- And on Sierras slopes of pine,
- The vines below, the snows above,
- A solitary lodge is set
- Within a fringe of water'd firs;
- And there my wigwam fires burn,
- Fed by a round brown patient hand
- That small brown faithful hand of hers
- That never rests till my return.
- The yellow smoke is rising yet;
- Tiptoe and see it where you stand
- like a column from the land.
- "There are no sea-gems in her hair,
- No jewels fret her dimpled hands,
- And half her bronzen limbs are bare.
- Her round brown arms have golden bands,
- Broad, rich, and by her cunning hands
- Cut from the yellow virgin ore,
- And she does not desire more.
- I wear the beaded wampum belt
- That she has wove—the sable pelt
- That she has fringed red threads around;
- And in the morn, when men are not,
- I wake the valley with the shot
- That brings the brown deer to the ground.
- And she beside the lodge at noon
- Sings with the wind, while baby swings
- In sea-shell cradle by the bough—
- Sings low, so like the clover sings
- With swarm of bees; I hear her now,
- I see her sad face through the moon....
- Such songs! would earth had more of such!
- She has not much to say, and she
- Lifts never voice to question me
- In aught I do....and that is much.
- I love her for her patient trust,
- And my love's forty-fold return
- A value I have not to learn
- As you....at least, as many must....
- .... "She is not over tall or fair;
- Her breasts are curtain'd by her hair,
- And sometimes, through the silken fringe,
- I see her bosom's wealth, like wine
- Burst through in luscious ruddy tinge—
- And all its wealth and worth are mine.
- I know not that one drop of blood
- Of prince or chief is in her veins:
- I simply say that she is good,
- And loves me with pure womanhood.
- ... When that is said, why, what remains ?"
MOUNT SHASTA, 1872.