From The Sun, March 7, 1915. By Arthur Chapman.
He rests, half buried in the drift
Of waterless and silent strands;
His fingers clutch a mocking gift—
The worthless, wind blown desert sands;
He thought to close his hand upon
A heavier and yellow prize
But now his lusts for gold have gone,
Shriveled beneath those blazing skies.
The lizard flits about his form,
The buzzards circle in the height;
If there be mercy in yon storm
May he be covered deep ere night;
And may the rippling sands smooth o’er
Upon the desert’s face the spot
Where ends his quest forevermore,
The quest of him the desert got.
The trails to distant water holes
His plodding feet shall ne’er retrace,
For unto still more distant goals
The prospector has turned his face;
These shifting sand hills lose their glow,
The breeze no more is furnace hot,
And when the storm ends none shall know
Where rests the man the desert got.