WHAT THE BULLET SANG
                 - Bret Harte

O joy of creation
                           To be!
O rapture to fly
                        And be free!
Be the battle lost or won,
  Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
I shall find my love - The one
                        Born for me!

I shall know him where he stands,
                            All alone,
With the power in his hands
                            Not o'erthrown;
I shall know him by his face,
  By his god-like front and grace;
I shall hold him for a space,
                           All my own!

It is he - O my love!
                            So bold!
It is I - All my love
                           Foretold!
It is I, O love what bliss!
Dost thou answer to my kiss?
Oh! Sweetheart, what is this!
                           Lieth there so cold!