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The Bandit's Grave |
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Yet peons curse his memory
Across the shifting sands. The desert cricket tunes his pipes
When the half-grown moon shines dim;
The sage thrush trills her evening song —
But what are they to him?
A rude-built cross beside the trail
That follows to the west
Casts its long-drawn, ghastly shadow
Across the sleeper's breast.
A lone coyote comes by night
And sits beside his bed, Sobbing the midnight hours away With gaunt, up-lifted head. The lizard trails his aimless way Across the lonely mound, When the star-guards of the desert Their pickets post around. The winter snows will heap their drifts
Among the leafless sage;
The pallid hosts of the blizzard
Will lift their voice in rage;
The gentle rains of early spring
Will woo the flowers to bloom,
And scatter their fleeting incense
O'er the border bandit's tomb. |
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Charles Pitt. |
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153 |
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