Page:The Poet in the Desert.djvu/11



The Desert cares no more for the death of the tribes than

for the death of the armies of black crawling crickets. Silence. Invincible. Impregnable. Compelling the soul

to stand forth to be questioned. Dazzling in the sun, whiter than snow, I see the bones Of those who have existed as I now exist. The bones are

here; where are they who lived? Like a thin veil, I see a crowd of gnats, buzzing their

hour. I know that they are my brethren, I am less than the

shadow of this rock, For the shadow returneth forever. Night overwhelms me. The coyotes bark to the stars. Upon the warm midnight sand I lie thoughtfully sifting

the earth through my fingers. I am that dust. I look up unto the stars, knowing that to them my life is

not more valuable than that of the flowers ; The little, delicate flowers of the Desert, Which, like a breath, catch at the hem of Spring and are

gone.

I have come into the Desert because my soul is athirst as

the Desert is athirst; My soul which is the soul of all ; universal ; not different. We are athirst for the waters which make beautiful the

path And entice the grass, the willows and poplars. So that in the heat of the day we may lie in a cool shadow, Soothed as by the hands of quiet women, listening to the

discourse of running waters as the voices of women,

exchanging the confidences of love. The little rivers run away from the rugged Titans who

are wrapped in cloaks of azure. They steal out from the mountains into the bosom of the

Desert ; And the willows follow after them, waving their hands,

calling that they run not so fast away.