WEARY, weary, desolate,
Sand-swept, parched, and
cursed of fate;
Burning, but how passionless!
Barren,
bald, and pitiless!
Through all ages baleful moons
Glared upon thy whited dunes;
And malignant, wrathful
suns
Fiercely drank thy streamless runs;
So that
Nature's only tune
Is the blare of the simoon,
Piercing burnt unweeping skies
With its awful monodies.
Not a flower lifts its head
Where the emigrant lies
dead;
Not a living creature calls
Where the Gila
Monster crawls,
Hot and hideous as the sun,
To the
dead man's skeleton;
But the desert and the dead,
And the hot hell overhead,
And the blazing, seething air,
And the dread mirage are there. |
