Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Rain in the DesertJohn Gould Fletcher
T
Is merely a far-off temple where the sleepy sun is burning
Its altar fires of pinyon and toyon for the day.
Their pottery whistles lie beside them, the prayer-sticks closely feathered.
On every mummied face there glows a smile.
Beneath the sluggish folds of the sky-serpents,
Coiling, uncoiling, blue black, sparked with fires.
Feel in the thin dried earth that is heaped about them,
Above the smell of scorching, oozing pinyon,
The acrid smell of rain.
Surround the mesa like a troop of silver dancers:
Shaking their rattles, stamping, chanting, roaring,
Whirling, extinguishing the last red wisp of light.