Has gone back to the Capital.

The winter winds blow bleak and chill,

The quaking, quivering aspen waves

About the summit of the hill;

Above the unrecorded graves

Where halt, abandoned burros feed

And coyotes call—and this is Creede.

Lone graves! whose head-boards bear no name,

Whose silent owners lived like brutes

And died as doggedly, but game,—