THE YUCCA PALMS
Gray pilgrims without pouch or staff,Or dust-stained robe, or cockle shell;Seek ye the path to some lost shrineHere in the desert grim as Hell?No arched cathedral dome bends down;The earth is iron, the sky is brass;’Tis ages since these blistered sandsForgot the touch of flower and grass.Stern penance do ye for old wrongsMayhap, or saintship seek from pain;With suppliant hands that never winThe benison of cooling rain.In beggar rags like that wild throngThat once in old Perugia stood,Ye bear your serried scourges high,A flagellante brotherhood.