The Sierra Nevadas

Serene and satisfied! Supreme! As lone
As God, they loom like God's archangels churl'd;
They look as cold as kings upon a throne;

A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow.

Joaquin Miller

Joaquin Miller, born Cincinnatus Heine Miller, was an American poet and frontiersman known for his romanticized views of the American West. Dubbed the 'Poet of the Sierras,' Miller's works often reflected the landscapes and legends of the American frontier. He was celebrated in the late 19th century but has since become a more obscure literary figure. Despite this, his contributions offer a fascinating glimpse into a period of American history steeped in exploration and adventure.

Joaquin Miller

Joaquin Miller's Home On The Hights

Joaquin Miller, Simple Poetry

The Defence Of The Alamo

Joaquin Miller, Simple Poetry

To Russia

Joaquin Miller, Simple Poetry

California On The Passing Of Tennyson

Joaquin Miller, 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.

The Silvery San Juan.

Wherever I wander, my spirit still dwells,
In the silvery San Juan^[1] with its streamlet and dells;
Whose mountainous summits, so rugged and high,
With their pinnacles pierce the ethereal sky;
Where the daisy, the rose, and the sweet columbine
Blend their colors with those of the sober hued pine;
Where the ceaseless erosions of measureless time,
Have chiseled the grotto and canon sublime;
Have sculptured the cliff, and the stern mountain wall;
Have formed the bold turret, impressive and tall;
Have cut the deep gorge with its wonderful caves,
Sepulchral and gloomy; whose vast architraves
Support the stalactites, both pendant and white,
Which with the stalagmites beneath them unite;
Where nestles a valley, sequestered and grand,
Worn out of the rock by the...

Alfred Castner King

In The Sierra Nevada

I lift my spirit to your cloudy thrones,
    And feel it broaden to your vast expanse,
        Oh! mountains, so immeasurably old,
        Crowned with bald rocks and everlasting cold,
    That melts not underneath the sun's fierce glance,
Peak above peak, fixed, dazzling, ice and stones.

Down your steep sides quick torrents leap and roar,
    And disappear, in gloomy gorges sunk,
        Fringed with black pines on dizzy verges high--
        Poised, trembling to the thunder and the cry
    Of the lost waters, through each giant trunk,
And farthest twig and tassel evermore.

Behold far down the mountain herdsman's ranche,
    The rough road winding past his lonely door,
        And in his ears, by day and night, the sound
        Of mad waves plunging d...

Kate Seymour Maclean

Joaquin Miller's Home On The Hights

Rugged! Rugged as Parnassus!
Rude, as all roads I have trod
Yet are steeps and stone-strewn passes
Smooth o'erhead, and nearest God.
Here black thunders of my canyon
Shake its walls in Titan wars!
Here white sea-born clouds companion
With such peaks as know the stars.

Steep below me lies the valley,
Deep below me lies the town,
Where great sea-ships ride and rally,
And the world walks up and down.
O, the sea of lights far streaming
When the thousand flags are furled
When the gleaming bay lies dreaming
As it duplicates the world.

Joaquin Miller

Yosemite

Sound! sound! sound!
O colossal walls and crown'd
In one eternal thunder!
Sound! sound! sound!
O ye oceans overhead,
While we walk, subdued in wonder,
In the ferns and grasses, under
And beside the swift Merced!
Fret! fret! fret!
Streaming, sounding banners, set
On the giant granite castles
In the clouds and in the snow!
But the foe he comes not yet,
We are loyal, valiant vassals,
And we touch the trailing tassles
Of the banners far below.
Surge! surge! surge!
From the white Sierra's verge,
To the very valley blossom.
Surge! surge! surge!
Yet the song-bird builds a home,
And the mossy branches cross them
In the clouds of falling foam.
Sweep! sweep! sweep!
O ye heaven-born and deep,
In one dread, unbroken chorus!

Joaquin Miller

The Mountain and the Lake

    I know a mountain thrilling to the stars,
    Peerless and pure, and pinnacled with snow;
    Glimpsing the golden dawn o'er coral bars,
    Flaunting the vanisht sunset's garnet glow;
    Proudly patrician, passionless, serene;
    Soaring in silvered steeps where cloud-surfs break;
    Virgin and vestal - Oh, a very Queen!
    And at her feet there dreams a quiet lake.

    My lake adores my mountain - well I know,
    For I have watched it from its dawn-dream start,
    Stilling its mirror to her splendid snow,
    Framing her image in its trembling heart;
    Glassing her graciousness of greening wood,
    Kissing her throne, melodiously mad,
    Thrilling responsive to her every mood,
    Gloomed with her sadness, gay when she is glad.

    ...

Robert William Service

A Snow Mountain.

Can I make white enough my thought for thee,
    Or wash my words in light? Thou hast no mate
To sit aloft in the silence silently
    And twin those matchless heights undesecrate.
Reverend as Lear, when, lorn of shelter, he
    Stood, with his old white head, surprised at fate;
Alone as Galileo, when, set free,
    Before the stars he mused disconsolate.

Ay, and remote, as the dead lords of song,
    Great masters who have made us what we are,
For thou and they have taught us how to long
    And feel a sacred want of the fair and far:
Reign, and keep life in this our deep desire -
Our only greatness is that we aspire.

Jean Ingelow