Like grim and war-worn braves who keep
A silent guard, with grief unspoken,
Watch o’er the graves by the Hoven weep,
The nameless graves of a race forgotten;
Whose deeds, whose words, whose fate are one,
With the mist, long ages past begotten
Of the sun.
—Stanley Wood.
Time forbade a side excursion from Durango to the Mancos Cañon, though we were extremely anxious to make it,—I because I had been there before, and the rest because they were eager to see what I had told them of.