The crinkled air crawls o’er the earth,
A snake with a withered tongue—
And over the heath of his blight beneath
A spume-flaked banner is flung.
O it is dust—dust—dust—
Till the eyeballs ache,
And heat till the heart-drops run,
For the brown earth burns in the butchering bake
That leaps from the soul of the sun.
John Trotwood Moore.