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HISTORY OF OREGON LITERATURE
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 battleWith fates—yet I fain would beVanquished and silenced foreverAnd driven back to my sea.Oh! to leave this stife, this tumoil,Leave all undone and skimWith the clouds that flee to the hilltipsAnd 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.
