Naquita

'naquita,' he said, 'naquita,
But one thing do I ask:
Bear my dust to the wide plains
And scatter it to the four winds,
That it may ride the mesas,
The buttes and the red arroyos,
And not be shut in a small tomb,
An inn for all comers—
Whose host, the harrowing worm,
Sets no fare forth at all,
Save for himself, but silence.'

And so I took his body
Of death-made alabaster
And bore it, in obedience,
To the place of cruel burning.
I gave his lips to a flame
Stronger than any passion,
And his eyes, that held wide heaven
And all eternity for me.
And I went back to the mesas—
Bearing the world — and God—
In a little urn of dust.

And then—Oh hunger of love!—
I was stricken and could not do it.
'If I scatter his dust,' I said,
' I scatter my soul to madness.
For if his heart were blowing
On the windy buttes and mesas
My heart would follow after.
But here in a grief-grey urn
I stili can hear it beating,
I still can clasp it to me.
He still must wait to ride!

'For a little while must wait,
Till the flame shall take me too,
And our twin dusts commingled
On the swift mount of the wind
Shall follow all trails that flesh
Can never, never follow.
Yes, over the Plains hurtle
Afar, flame-wedded atoms:
Till the last wind shall cease,
And dust no more be dust,
And life and death be one.'