THESE lands are clothed in burning weather, <br />These parched lands pant for God’s cool rain; <br />I look away where strike together <br />The burnished sky and barren plain. <br /> <br />I look away; no green thing gladdens <br />My weary eye—no flower, no tree, <br />Naught save the earth, the sage-brush saddens <br />The scorched, gray earth that sickens me. <br /> <br />Oh for the pines, where the sweet wind revels! <br />The ringing laugh of the crystal creek! <br />Alas, gaunt Hunger haunts these levels, <br />And Thirst goes wandering wan and weak. <br /> <br />No shadow falls where swiftly passes <br />The gray coyote’s noiseless feet, <br />No song of bird, no hint of grasses— <br />The home of Silence and of Heat!<br /><br />Herbert Bashford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-arid-lands/
