What The Bullet Sang

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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 godlike 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 thy love
  Foretold!
It is I.  O love! what bliss!
Dost thou answer to my kiss?
O sweetheart! what is this
  Lieth there so cold?

© Francis Bret Harte