813. What the Bullet sang

Bret Harte. 1839-1902

O JOY of creation,
        To be!
O rapture, to fly
        And be free!
Be the battle lost or won,
Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
I shall find my love--the one
        Born for me!

I shall know him where he stands
        All alone,
With the power in his hands
        Not o'erthrown;
I shall know him by his face,
By his godlike front and grace;
I shall hold him for a space
        All my own!

It is he--O my love!
        So bold!
It is I--all thy love
It is I--O love, what bliss!
Dost thou answer to my kiss?
O sweetheart! what is this
        Lieth there so cold?

The Oxford Book of English Verse, HTML edition