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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Alfred Hitch

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Desert

Alfred Hitch

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.