The horses were ready,
The rails were down,
But the riders lingered still
One had a parting word to say
And one had his pipe to fill
They had told us of pastures
Wide and green,
To be sought past the sunsets' glow,
Of rifts in the ranges by opals lit
And gold 'neath the rivers flow
The creek at the ford
Was but fetlock deep,
When we watched them crossing there,
The rains have replenished it thrice since then
And thrice has the rocks lain bare.
But the waters of hope
Have flower and fled,
And never from blue hills breast,
Came back, by the sun and sand devoured
Where the Pelican builds its nest.
