Classic Poem

Dove of the desert, so wild and so free,
What nook in this waste is dear unto thee?
Around you I see the dead cactus stand,
And brown, withered weeds on hot hills of sand.
Here yawns the red gully, here burns the dead plain,
Here hang the sharp rocks, all thirsty for rain.
O dove of the desert, so wild and so free,
What spot in these barrens is blest unto thee?

Dove of the desert, around thee are spread,
In the alkali dust, the bones of the dead.
No spring can be seen, no blossom uprears
Through the bayonet-bush with its porcupine spears.
No cloud cools the brow of the hot, fevered plain,
Unbaptized, unblest, with the patter of rain.
O dove of the desert, as meek as a child,
What charm brings thee here to this death-haunted wild?

Dove of the desert, you find a sweet rest
When sinking at night to sleep on your nest.
The desert is barren, and sterile and hot,
Yet it gives to your heart a consecrate spot.
I traverse great cities, yet I find no home,
On the crowded streets I in solitude roam.
There out in the desert, you mate with your own,—
Dove of the desert, I fare forth alone.