After the Accident

What I want is my husband, sir,
And if youre a man, sir,
Youll give me an answer,
Where is my Joe?

Penrhyn, sir, Joe,
Caernarvonshire.
Six months ago
Since we came here
Eh? Ah, you know!

Well, I am quiet
And still,
But I must stand here,
And will!
Please, Ill be strong,
If youll just let me wait
Inside o that gate
Till the news comes along.

Negligence!
That was the cause!
Butchery!
Are there no laws,
Laws to protect such as we?

Well, then!
I wont raise my voice.
There, men!
I wont make no noise,
Only you just let me be.

Four, only four did he say
Saved! and the other ones? Eh?
Why do they call?
Why are they all
Looking and coming this way?

Whats that? a message?
Ill take it.
I know his wife, sir,
Ill break it.
Foreman!
Ay, ay!
Out by and by,
Just saved his life.
Say to his wife
Soon hell be free.
Will I? God bless you!
Its me!

Bret Harte

Bret Harte was an American author and poet, renowned for his works about pioneering life in California. Born on August 25, 1836, he gained national fame with his short stories and poetry depicting life in the early mining camps. His most famous works include 'The Luck of Roaring Camp' and 'The Outcasts of Poker Flat.' Harte's writings played a crucial role in shaping the Western genre in American literature. He passed away on May 5, 1902.

Bret Harte

The Birds of Cirencester

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

Artemis in Sierra

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

Thompson of Angels

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

The Miracle of Padre Junipero

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Her Last Letter

June 4th! Do you know what that date means?
June 4th! By this air and these pines!
Well, only you know how I hate scenes,
These might be my very last lines!
For perhaps, sir, youll kindly remember
If some other things youve forgot
That you last wrote the 4th of december,
Just six months ago! from this spot;

From this spot, that you said was the fairest
For once being held in my thought.
Now, really I call that the barest
Of well, I wont say what I ought!
For here I am back from my riches,
My triumphs, my tours, and all that;
And youre not to be found in the ditches
Or temples of Poverty Flat!

From Paris we went for the season
To London, when Pa wired, Stop.
Mama says his health was the reason.
(Ive heard that some th...

Bret Harte

When The Bell Blew Up

That's the boiler at The Bell, mates! Tumble out, Ned, neck and crop,
Never mind your hat and coat, man, well be wanted on the job.
Barneys driving, Harveys stoking, God help all the hands on top!
Bring along the brandy, some one. Dont stand like an image, Bob;
Grab those shirts, theyll all be needed. Rugs and candles, thats all right.
Bet your lives, boys, well have lots of doctors work to do to-night!

Didnt she thunder? Scot! I thought the universe had gone to smash.
Take the track through Peetrees paddock, make the smartest time you know.
Barney swore her plates were rotten, but poor Bill was always rash.
And his missus, heaven help her!, they were spliced a month ago.
Down the track we raced together, up the hill, then oer the claim
Saw the steam-clouds hangi...

Edward

Grandmother Tenterden

I mind it was but yesterday:
The sun was dim, the air was chill;
Below the town, below the hill,
The sails of my sons ship did fill,
My Jacob, who was cast away.

He said, God keep you, mother dear,
But did not turn to kiss his wife;
They had some foolish, idle strife;
Her tongue was like a two-edged knife,
And he was proud as any peer.

Howbeit that night I took no note
Of sea nor sky, for all was drear;
I marked not that the hills looked near,
Nor that the moon, though curved and clear,
Through curd-like scud did drive and float.

For with my darling went the joy
Of autumn woods and meadows brown;
I came to hate the little town;
It seemed as if the sun went down
With him, my only darling boy.

It was the middle of t...

Bret Harte

His Answer to Her Letter

Being asked by an intimate party,
Which the same I would term as a friend,
Though his health it were vain to call hearty,
Since the mind to deceit it might lend;
For his arm it was broken quite recent,
And theres something gone wrong with his lung,
Which is why it is proper and decent
I should write what he runs off his tongue.

First, he says, Miss, hes read through your letter
To the end,    and the end came too soon;
That a slight illness kept him your debtor,
(Which for weeks he was wild as a loon);
That his spirits are buoyant as yours is;
That with you, Miss, he challenges Fate,
(Which the language that invalid uses
At times it were vain to relate).

And he says that the mountains are fairer
For once being held in your thought;...

Bret Harte

Ramon

Drunk and senseless in his place,
Prone and sprawling on his face,
More like brute than any man
Alive or dead,
By his great pump out of gear,
Lay the peon engineer,
Waking only just to hear,
Overhead,
Angry tones that called his name,
Oaths and cries of bitter blame,
Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled!

To the man wholl bring to me,
Cried Intendant Harry Lee,
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,
Bring the sot alive or dead,
I will give to him, he said,
Fifteen hundred pesos down,
Just to set the rascals crown
Underneath this heel of mine:
Since but death
Deserves the man whose deed,
Be it vice or want of heed,
Stops the pumps that give us breath,
Stops the pumps that suck the death
Fro...

Bret Harte

The Station-Master of Lone Prairie

An empty bench, a sky of grayest etching,
A bare, bleak shed in blackest silhouette,
Twelve years of platform, and before them stretching
Twelve miles of prairie glimmering through the wet.

North, south, east, west, the same dull gray persistence,
The tattered vapors of a vanished train,
The narrowing rails that meet to pierce the distance,
Or break the columns of the far-off rain.

Naught but myself; nor form nor figure breaking
The long hushed level and stark shining waste;
Nothing that moves to fill the vision aching,
When the last shadow fled in sullen haste.

Nothing beyond. Ah yes! From out the station
A stiff, gaunt figure thrown against the sky,
Beckoning me with some wooden salutation
Caught from his signals as the train flashed by;

Bret Harte