"When camped for the night, Cynthia Anne, our then unknown
And falling leaves, and solitary wings!
Aye, you may see their graves - you who have toiled,
And tripped and thirsted, like these men of ours;
For verily I say that not so deep
Their bones are that the scattered drift and dust
Of gusty days will never leave them bare.
O dear, dead, bleaching bones! I know of those
Who have the wild strong will to go and sit