Poetry

THE DEAD MILLIONAIRE.

Joaquin Miller


  • The gold that with the sunlight lies
  • In bursting heaps at dawn,
  • The silver spilling from the skies
  • At night to walk upon,
  • The diamonds gleaming in the dew
  • He never saw, he never knew.

  • He got some gold, dug from the mud,
  • Some silver, crushed from stones.
  • The gold was red with dead men's blood,
  • The silver black with groans;
  • And when he died he moaned aloud
  • "There ll be no pocket in my shroud."