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I THERE’S no hiding here in the glare of the desert— | |
| If your coat is sham the sun shines through. | |
| Here with the lonely things and the silence | |
| There is no crowd for saving you. | |
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| When hearts love here the love lasts longer, | 5 |
| And hate leaves here a heavy scar. | |
| But we, with the desert’s beauty of distance, | |
| Are always dreaming of places far! | |
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| If you have come to start a kingdom— | |
| Our eyes have looked on Rome and Tyre! | 10 |
| But if you come with dreams for baggage, | |
| Sit with us by the cedar fire! | |
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II The sultry sudden darkness, | |
| Like some black mantle thrown | |
| From shoulders of a giant | 15 |
| On children left alone, | |
| Falls over us; and, stilled with fear, | |
| In dark we see, in silence hear! | |
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| Then rain!—a sudden pounding | |
| Of unformed maddened things, | 20 |
| Pounding, splashing—stubborn | |
| As vultures’ heavy wings | |
| That pound the air, too sure to hate, | |
| In hunger, and move low, and wait! | |
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III Four old trees stand tall on a hill. | 25 |
| Wind swirls around them, never still; | |
| And their heads together bow and sway | |
| As if in talk of a game they play. | |
| Sometimes they laugh and sometimes sigh; | |
| And there beneath a low gray sky | 30 |
| I’ve seen them drop their leaves when thins | |
| The gold and crimson, as near dawn | |
| Wise gamblers drop their cards upon | |
| The table, saying kindly, “Why | |
| Quarrel with a game that no one wins!” | 35 |
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IV The wood was so old that I thought | |
| I’d hear it saying its prayers | |
| In the aisles like cloisters wrought; | |
| But I came on it, unawares, | |
| Chuckling—like old men mellow grown— | 40 |
| Talking of youth on a hill alone! | |
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V The birds love you too, | |
| Calling, “Sweet, sweet, sweet!” | |
| In the windy lane | |
| Where the tree-tops meet. | 45 |
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| But I love you best, | |
| Since my lips let pass | |
| No song lest I miss | |
| Your steps on the grass. | |
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VI I’ll go where willows quicken | 50 |
| Their dances in the glow | |
| Of morning, and the wild brooks | |
| Make music down below; | |
| For I am weary seeking | |
| The things I may not know. | 55 |
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| And I shall feel the silver | |
| Of willow leaves, and hold | |
| A drop of water winking | |
| With rainbows yet unsold. | |
| What more may all the world find | 60 |
| Now all its dreams are old! | |
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