PICTURE OF A BULL
by Joaquin Miller
nce, morn by morn, when snowy mountains flamed- With sudden shafts of light that shot a flood
- Into the vale like fiery arrows aim'd
- At night from mighty battlements, there stood
- Upon a cliff high-limn'd against Mount Hood,
- A matchless bull, fresh forth from sable wold,
- And standing so seem'd grander'gainst the wood
- Than winged bull that stood with tips of gold
- Beside the brazen gates of Nineveh of old.
- A time he toss'd the dewy turf, and then
- Stretch'd forth his wrinkled neck, and loud
- He call'd above the far abodes of men
- Until his breath became a curling cloud
- And wreathed about his neck a misty shroud.
- He then as sudden as he came pass'd on
- With lifted head, majestic and most proud,
- And lone as night in deepest wood with drawn
- He roamed in silent rage until another dawn.
- What drove the hermit from the valley herd,
- What cross of love, what cold neglect of kind,
- Or scorn of unpretending worth had stirr'd
- The stubborn blood and drove him forth to find
- A fellowship in mountain cloud and wind,
- I ofttime wonder'd much; and ofttime thought
- The beast betray'd a royal monarch's mind,
- To lift above the low herd's common lot,
- And make them hear him still when they had fain forgot.