  Amid the plains of yellow sand and cactus, Encircled by the distant barren hills, Amid the awful desert of Nevada, Beneath the glaring sun which burns and kills, There is a lonely grave, where the San Padro Fast speeds from palm-groves of Los Angeles, A lonely grave just by the road-side, Which kindly hands unselfishly did bless. A wooden cross is standing at its head, On which no name nor date they did inscribe, Still, half in ruin, it stands there to bless An unknown sleeper of the wandering tribe. And at the foot the symbol of his life, No fitter epitaph on any grave— For man is but a restless sojourner, So there they placed the pilgrim’s handworn stave. Who was he? None can tell, some say a tramp, Who stole a ride and crushed was ’neath the wheels; But tramps are also men, and sometimes more Of worth than their unhappy plight reveals; But this I know: He was a mother’s son, Who still may wonder how her boy does fare, Who still, perchance, is praying for this one, The chiefest object of her loving care. May be some other hearts are looking for His coming home, though after many years, Who think of him as he was in his youth, And seldom speak his name, except with tears, Who know not of this solitary grave, Where all seems hopeless, save the crumbling cross, Which shall at last life’s mystery explain. |
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