On the Gila's sun-burnt plain Where naught but the mesquit grows, And the fevered breath of the sullen simoon From off the desert blows; Where the earth's dry lips are athirst And the Gila monsters crawl, Stands a house of adobe alone and despoiled By the years which scatter all. The Indian as wrinkled and sere As the leaf that rustles aground, Has no legend-torch its grey depth to light, And echo can find no sound. No house of its kin on the plain; Life refuses its brotherhood now; Even Death has laid a reluctant hand On La Casa Grande's brow. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LUNCH AT A CLUB by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET RHYTHM by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE OCTOROON by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ACROSS THE RED SKY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD SPRING WIND IN LONDON by KATHERINE MANSFIELD |