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1837–1913

XXVII.

Joaquin Miller

Yet what to her were burning seas, Or what to him was forest flame? They loved; they loved the glorious trees, The gleaming tides, or rise or fall;

They loved the lisping winds that came From sea-lost spice-set isles unknown, With breath not warmer than their own: They loved, they loved,— and that was all.

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XXVII. · Joaquin Miller · Poetry Cove