Four Poems, Op. 16: IV. In the Bosom of the Desert

I will lie at the last.

Not the grey desert of sand

But the golden desert of great wild grasses, This shall receive my soul.

In the high plateaus,

The wind will be like a flute-note calling me Day after day.

Short bursts of surf,

The wind climbs up and stops in the grass And the golden petals

Brush drowsily over my face.

White butterfly that flutters across my sea of golden blossom Tell me, what are you looking for, lone white butterfly?

I am seeking for a strange lonely white flower Its petals are honeyless and in the wind it is still.

White butterfly, come, fold your wings over my heart:

I am the white blossom, the white dead blossom for you.

In the golden bosom of the prairie, I am lying at the last

Like a pool that is stilled.

But they who shared with me my life's adventure,

Who tossed their ducats like dandelions into the sunlight, I know that somewhere they with songs are building, Golden towers more beautiful than my own.