THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 65 



of the southwestern summer night. Then, rushing 

 fearlessly into the stillness, ring out the exultant 

 notes of the mocking bird in his prime — lord of 

 Love and Life, challenging, as it were, the Im- 

 mutable, the Eternal, which answer not. His voice 

 breaks, droops, dies away in a long questioning 

 whisper. The swift cool breeze tosses the cotton- 

 wood leaves in the face of the silver moon, and 

 swings away across the desert to where the untrod- 

 den spires of the mountains cleave the sky, them- 

 selves as unheeding, as indifferent. 



The moments pass solemnly. The bird lifts his 

 wild voice no more. The winds pause in their flight. 

 The darkest hour before the dawn is at hand. 



"The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, 



And the weary winds are silent, and the moon is in the deep; 



Some respite from its restlessness unresting ocean knows, 



Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep. 

 Thou in the grave shalt rest. . . . 



