As I sit here, and oftentimes, I wish
  I could be monarch of a desert land
  I could devote and dedicate forever
  To the truths we keep coming back and back to.
  So desert it would have to be, so walled
  By mountain ranges half in summer snow,
  No one would covet it or think it worth
  The pains of conquering to force change on.
  Scattered oases where men dwelt, but mostly
  Sand dunes held loosely in tamarisk
  Blown over and over themselves in idleness.
  Sand grains should sugar in the natal dew
  The babe born to the desert, the sand storm
  Retard mid-waste my cowering caravans—

  “There are bees in this wall.” He struck the clapboards,
  Fierce heads looked out; small bodies pivoted.
  We rose to go. Sunset blazed on the windows.

  -- Robert Frost, the Black Cottage

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