Page:History of Oregon Literature.djvu/308

Weary of all this year
 That beareth the bitter fruit;
Weary of everything now,
 I weep at the sound of a flute.
Oh! lethal and livid flowers,
 Flame over my love, long dead;
Let not the black sepulcher darkness
 Creep over his beautiful head.

To the splendid grave they have made him,
 Where the tropical drowsiness floats,
Where a bird in the plumage of Eros
 Is tolling his funeral notes,
I will come, sometimes, with the shadows;
 I will hush the wild notes of the bird;
And then, in the listening silence,
 The voice of my heart shall be heard.
MINNIE MYRTLE MILLER.

At the Land’s End

I am conscript—hurried to battle
With fates—yet I fain would be
Vanquished and silenced forever
And driven back to my sea.
Oh! to leave this stife, this tumoil,
Leave all undone and skim
With the clouds that flee to the hilltips
And rest forever with Him.

ENCAMPED

The twilight air is soft and still;
 The night bird trills, the crickets sing;
The zephyrs from the distant hill
 A thousand pleasant odors bring;
The tents are spread, the snowy tents,
 Grouped in the grassy glen;
The bugle note has died away;
 And silence reigns again.
MINNIE MYRTLE MILLER.