THE YUCCA PALMS
Reading edition
Gray pilgrims without pouch or staff, Or dust-stained robe, or cockle shell; Seek ye the path to some lost shrine Here in the desert grim as Hell? No arched cathedral dome bends down; The earth is iron, the sky is brass; ’Tis ages since these blistered sands Forgot the touch of flower and grass. Stern penance do ye for old wrongs Mayhap, or saintship seek from pain; With suppliant hands that never win The benison of cooling rain. In beggar rags like that wild throng That once in old Perugia stood, Ye bear your serried scourges high, A flagellante brotherhood.