There sandy seems the golden sky
And golden seems the sandy plain.
No habitation meets the eye
Unless in the horizon rim,
Some halfway up the limestone wall,
That spot of black is not a stain
Or shadow, but a cavern hole,
Where someone used to climb and crawl
To rest from his besetting fears.
I see the callus on his soul
The disappearing last of him
And of his race starvation slim,
Oh years ago -- ten thousand years.

Added: on April 6th, 2006 at 8:16 AM | Viewed: 5217 times | Comments (1)

Poet: Robert Frost
Poem: A Cliff Dwelling
Volume: Steeple Bush
Year: Published/Written in 1947
Poem of the Day: Oct 21 2005

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