Фрэнсис Брет Гарт (Francis Bret Harte)

What the Bullet Sang

     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
           Foretold!
     It is I.  O love! what bliss!
     Dost thou answer to my kiss?
     O sweetheart! what is this
           Lieth there so cold?

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