POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
The heat rose and fell—
Sharp flickering arpeggios;
The wind started up somewhere,
Then stopped.
The blue smoke of my cigarette
Wavered and failed:
I was drowsing.
And it seemed to me in my dream
I was riding
To a low brown cluster of squat adobe houses
Under the brow of a red barren mesa,
Where the track of a wagon trail passed, dipped, and vanished,
By a corral with walls of rough plastered stone:
And I saw,
Looking down at the houses
An Indian with a red sash, flannel shirt, and blue trousers,
And a red band about his coarse black hair.
Eyes black as an antelope
Looked up at me:
Sheep were feeding about him.
And I said to him, "Where do you come from?"
And he replied, "From Nazareth, beyond the desert,
In Galilee."
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