A little dead-brown woman in the grass
Below the mountains over Idaho,
Near bluffs that stand like castle walls in gold,
Blocks out the light with one hand made of glass
And wishes for the swift onset of snow,
For now she knows she never will grow old.
The miles before her feet have left her dumb,
Have brought her aching eyes and fine-scarred skin,
And turned her smallest fancies into sin
To leave her here where shadows never come.
Her dead-brown dream no better than a thief—
Surrender seems a smaller thing than grief;
And on the patient earth she waits for sleep,
For everything she has, she knows she'll keep.