  Oh, joy that burns in Denver tavern! The lights, the drink, the ceaseless play! A kingdom, dull within a cavern, Across the boards he flings away. Then night that falls on either mountain (Ah, bitter black it falls between); But he, like water to its fountain, Is come again where life runs clean. So Death shall find him, delving, peering. Still silver rock, still golden sand. He weeps to hear the magpies’ jeering, But he is back in his own land. |
|
