Far in far Colorado's canoned gloom,
Girt by the shadow of Titanic trees,
Swept by the swift and eagle-haunted breeze,
There stands a desolate and forgotten tomb.

No hunter knows the dead one's name or doom;
No soul to garland it has passed the seas;
It lies there one of earth's sad mysteries,
Where cougars crawl, where weeds and nettle bloom

The bounding bisons trample on the stone,
The tempests lull the unknown form to rest.
Unconsecrated, friendless and unblest,
It stands until the end of time, alone.
Such is the oblivion that I fain would win
When death relieves me of this life of sin.