THE MIRAGE 



Over the sun-scorched, glaring sand, 



Under a pitiless, molten sky, 

 Luring on with a mocking hand, 



Over the stretches, white-hot and dry; 

 Painting a picture of rippling streams, 



Grassy valleys and cooling shade 

 There in the desert it glows and gleams, 



In magic beauty of light arrayed. 



Out in a withering, vast expanse, 



Parched and shriveled and dead and bare; 

 Out where the shimmering heat-waves dance, 



The wraith of the desert gleams on the air. 

 It lures and calls in enticing strains, 



As its waters lave on a shining shore, 

 And whispers of billowy, fertile plains, 



And bloom-decked hills I would fain explore. 



Over the stunted sagebrush sea, 



Under a glimmering, sweltering sun, 

 It beckons, beckons and smiles at me, 



As its wimpling waves of waters run. 

 Only a ghost of a green-clad vale 



A desert specter that lures and snares 

 It calls me over a death-marked trail, 



Into a furnace that seethes and glares. 



It fades and dies as I reel ahead 



Over the arid and burning waste 

 A picture of beauty an instant spread, 



And then forever from sight effaced. 

 But over its bosom flame-hot and white, 



The bones of many are bleaching bare, 

 Who turned aside at the luring sight 



In the painted depths of the desert's glare. 

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