by Patience Worth
What futile things are words!
But dust of the Desert of Thought,
And he who would enslave them,
Marking indelibly the pith of his being
Upon the atoms, must first walk
With bare feet the searing sand of day;
And e'er he catch the dust
Of that magic desert, spill from his heart
A little of its crimson fount,
Else tomorrow's wind shall find
But more dust, yea, more confusion!
Last updated January 14, 2019