From his cabin on the heights back of Oakland, California, the gray poet of the Sierras, Joaquin Miller [pronounced "Hwah-keen">[, looks down across San Francisco Harbor and through the Golden Gate.
When word came to Joaquin Miller, in May, 1902, that his friend, Bret Harte, was dead, he embalmed his grief in the wonderful poem of farewell here printed. He pictured the somber ship of death traveling silently at sunset out through the Golden Gate.
The poem originally appeared in the Overland Monthly for September, 1902. The issue was devoted to the memory of Bret Harte, and included reprints of "The Luck of Roaring Camp," "The Outcasts of Poker Flat," "Plain Language from Truthful James," and other of Harte's best work.
GOOD-BY, BRET HARTE!
By JOAQUIN MILLER.
Yon yellow sun melts in the sea;
A somber ship sweeps silently
Past Alcatraz tow'rd Orient skies—
A mist is rising to the eyes—
Good-by, Bret Harte, good night, good night!
Yon sea-bank booms far funeral guns!
What secrets of His central suns,
Companion of the peak and pine,
What secrets of the spheres are thine?
Good-by, Bret Harte, good night, good night!
You loved the lowly, laughed at pride,
We mocked, we mocked and pierced your side;
And yet for all harsh scoffings heard
You answered not one unkind word,
But went your way, as now: Good night!
How stately tall your ship, how vast,
With night nailed to your leaning mast,
With mighty stars of hammered gold
And moon-wrought cordage manifold!
Good-by, Bret Harte, good night, good night!