WEARY, weary, desolate, Sand-swept, parched, and cursed of fate; Burning, but how passionless! Barren, bald, and pitiless! Through all ages baleful moons Glared upon thy whited dunes; And malignant, wrathful suns Fiercely drank thy streamless runs; So that Nature's only tune Is the blare of the simoon, Piercing burnt unweeping skies With its awful monodies. Not a flower lifts its head Where the emigrant lies dead; Not a living creature calls Where the Gila Monster crawls, Hot and hideous as the sun, To the dead man's skeleton; But the desert and the dead, And the hot hell overhead, And the blazing, seething air, And the dread mirage are there. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WILLIAM P. FRYE [FEBRUARY 28, 1915] by JEANNE ROBERT FOSTER TO JOHN DONNE (1) by BEN JONSON TO HIS DEAD BODY by SIEGFRIED SASSOON RAILROAD RHYME by JOHN GODFREY SAXE TO THE MOON (1) by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 2 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY |