Half an Hour Before Supper

So shes here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you met on the train,
And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her again?

Of course, he replied, she would know me; there never was womankind yet
Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not forget.

Then you told her your love? asked the elder. The younger looked up with a smile:
I sat by her side half an hour what else was I doing the while?

What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky,
And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from your own to her eye?

No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and as bold as the look,
And I held up herself to herself, that was more than she got from her book.

Young blood! laughed the elder; no doubt you are voicing the mode of To-Day:
But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance for delay.

Theres my wife (you must know), we first met on the journey from Florence to Rome:
It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where was her home;

Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw her again;
And a year ere my romance began where yours ended that day on the train.

Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day by express;
Forty miles to the hour, he answered, wont admit of a passion thats less.

But what if you make a mistake? quoth the elder. The younger half sighed.
What happens when signals are wrong or switches misplaced? he replied.

Very well, I must bow to your wisdom, the elder returned, but submit
Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has bettered no whit.

Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I try your ideal
With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regle and real?

Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist you shall follow this way.
My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to stay?

My wife, Mr. Rapid Eh, what! Why, hes gone yet he said he would come.
How rude! I dont wonder, my dear, you are properly crimson and dumb!

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

What the Engines Said

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

The Heathen Chinee

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

San Francisco

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

Plain Language from Truthful James

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

English

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Telemachus versus Mentor

Dont mind me, I beg you, old fellow, Ill do very well here alone;
You must not be kept from your German because Ive dropped in like a stone.
Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught but yourself;
And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on the shelf.

As for me, you will say to your hostess well, I scarcely need give you a cue.
Chant my praise! All will list to Apollo, though Mercury pipe to a few.
Say just what you please, my dear boy; theres more eloquence lies in youths rash
Outspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this grizzling mustache.

Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant, youths panoplied armor for fight,
And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and lasts but a night;
And pray the Nine Gods to avert you what ...

Bret Harte

Aspiring Miss De Laine

Certain facts which serve to explain
The physical charms of Miss Addie De Laine,
Who, as the common reports obtain,
Surpassed in complexion the lily and rose;
With a very sweet mouth and a retrousse nose;
A figure like Hebes, or that which revolves
In a milliners window, and partially solves
That question which mentor and moralist pains,
If grace may exist minus feeling or brains.

Of course the young lady had beaux by the score,
All that she wanted, what girl could ask more?
Lovers that sighed and lovers that swore,
Lovers that danced and lovers that played,
Men of profession, of leisure, and trade;
But one, who was destined to take the high part
Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart,
This lover, the wonder and envy of town,
Was a practicin...

Bret Harte

Concepcion de Arguello

I

Looking seaward, oer the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and quaint,
By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint,

Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed,
On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angels golden reed;

All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed away;
And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day.

Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering eye,
Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by;

Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of gold
With the plain and homespun present, and a love that neer grows old;

Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner dust,
Listen to the simple story of a womans love and trust.
...

Bret Harte

An Idyl of the Road

Dramatis Personæ

First Tourist
Second Tourist
Yuba Bill, Driver
A Stranger



First Tourist

Look how the upland plunges into cover,
Green where the pines fade sullenly away.
Wonderful those olive depths! and wonderful, moreover

Second Tourist

The red dust that rises in a suffocating way.

First Tourist

Small is the soul that cannot soar above it,
Cannot but cling to its ever-kindred clay:
Better be yon bird, that seems to breathe and love it

Second Tourist

Doubtless a hawk or some other bird of prey.
Were we, like him, as sure of a dinner
That on our stomachs would comfortably stay;
Or were the fried ham a shade or two just thinner,
That must confront us at closing of the day:

Bret Harte

The Return of Belisarius

So youre back from your travels, old fellow,
And you left but a twelvemonth ago;
Youve hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon,
Eugenie, and kissed the Popes toe.
By Jove, it is perfectly stunning,
Astounding, and all that, you know;
Yes, things are about as you left them
In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago.

The boys! theyre all right, Oh! Dick Ashley,
Hes buried somewhere in the snow;
He was lost on the Summit last winter,
And Bob has a hard row to hoe.
You know that hes got the consumption?
You didnt! Well, come, thats a go;
I certainly wrote you at Baden,
Dear me! that was six months ago.

I got all your outlandish letters,
All stamped by some foreign P. O.
I handed myself to Miss Mary
That sketch of a famous chateau.
Tom Saunders is ...

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