William Prescott Foster (1856– )

A BARREN waste of upland cold and gray,

Its rocky ground to weed and thistle grown,

As though the unwatched wind had reaped and sown

Along its slopes for many a year and day;

And in the midst, as if a grave should stray

And lose itself among the hills alone,

A child’s small mound and pitiful headstone.

The only fair thing near, not far away

With hushéd murmur doth bewildered roam

A little brook, and round the landscape wind,

As its deserted mountain source it sought

To gain anew: it seemed like a lost mind,

That in some desolate tract, unmapped of thought,

Wanders, alone, and far from any home.