Bret Harte.

1836-1902

816   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?