  One morn in old Mongolia, In Asia’s arid lands, Men found the eggs of dinosaurs Upon the Gobi sands. The one-time myths in miniature, The seeds that turned to stone; The mirage of forgotten things Upon the sands were strown. Fate left them to strange lassitudes, The lonely and the still, That could have tusked creation’s flanks But for some sudden chill. The roses pined in weary wastes Yet won to garden wall; The honey-loving humming-birds Outlived a waterfall; The does a-down the centuries Soft nosed each little fawn; The robin’s breast was o’er her brood, All gentle things were born. With sweet significance the bowers Gave beckonings and smiles, And then came Eden’s wistful mates To walk in Eden’s aisles. But in the Gobi solitudes, The tombs time left unlatched— There lay in wind-blown shrouds of sand The eggs that never hatched. |
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