The Desert

Stricken by the hand of Fate,
All things, motionless, await
The rain that never comes; no hope
In cloudless skies. Far westward slope
Low bastioned hills without a tree,
Dead-guarding some dread mystery.

The land lies far in weary miles,
Under the sun, across the sands.
An aromatic scent beguiles --
Of sage, sole plant in arid lands.
From desert-floors, wind-swept, arise
Dust clouds like smoke unto the skies.