|
The Bandit's Grave |
||
|
|
||
|
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. |
||
|
|
||
|
Charles Pitt. |
||
|
|
||
|
153 |
||
|
|
||