IN THE CARAVAN.
When we see our life like a desert hard to cross, Where the great heats are beating beneath a cruel beam,And only in mirage the plumy palm-trees toss, Purple shadows tremble, cooling waters gleam;
When the sand-storm threatens, and bleached bones mark the way And the long levels burn against the burning sky,And we weary for a shelter, and hate the blinding day,— Hate the fierce lights, the scorching airs, and long to die;
When we picture only the sudden fall of night Deep and dark and azure through distances of stars,
