Dead In The Sierras

His footprints have failed us,
Where berries are red,
And madroños are rankest,-
The hunter is dead!

The grizzly may pass
By his half-open door;
May pass and repass
On his path, as of yore;

The panther may crouch
In the leaves on his limb;
May scream and may scream,-
It is nothing to him.

Prone, bearded, and breasted
Like columns of stone;
And tall as a pine-
As a pine overthrown!

His camp-fires gone,
What else can be done
Than let him sleep on
Till the light of the sun?

Ay, tombless! what of it?
Marble is dust,
Cold and repellent;
And iron is rust.