Photo by Jeremy Alford on Unsplash

The cactus in the desert stands  
    Like time’s inviolate sentinel,  
Watching the sun-washed waste of sands 
     Lest they their ancient secrets tell.  
And the lost lore of mournful lands 
     It knows alone and guards too well.
  
Wiser than Sphynx or pyramid,  
     It points a stark hand at the sky,  
And all the stars alight or hid  
     It counts as they go rolling by; 
And mysteries the gods forbid 
     Darken its heavy memory.  

I asked how old the world was—yea, 
     And why yon ruddy mountain grew 
Out of hell’s fire. By night nor day  
     It answered not, though all it knew,  
But lifted, as it stopped my way,  
     Its wrinkled fingers toward the blue
  
Inscrutable and stern and still  
     It waits the everlasting doom.  
Races and years may do their will—
     Lo, it will rise above their tomb,  
Till the drugged earth has drunk her fill 
     Of light, and falls asleep in gloom. 

Harriet Monroe (1860–1936) was an American poet, critic, and editor. She is best known as the founding publisher and editor of Poetry magazine.

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