Poems (Spofford)/In the Caravan
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, Think of dusky winds that whisper up its height Like winged spirits fanning against their prison-bars;
And, when thus we sigh and languish, a cry resounds, and soon, Across the sea of sand some foreland rears its head,Where tamarisk thickets drop their dew in the mid-noon,— Then life rebubbles in our veins as it might stir the dead!
Oh, surely so, when hard the way before and long behind, One everlasting refuge always rises close at hand,Where the living fountains flow, and in whose rest we find The Shadow of a Great Rock in a weary land!