In fair Yosemite, that den of thieves
    Wherein the minions of the moon divide
  The travelers' purses, lo! the Devil grieves,
    His larger share as leader still denied.

  El Capitan, foreseeing that his reign
    May be disputed too, beclouds his head.
  The joyous Bridal Veil is torn in twain
    And the crêpe steamer dangles there instead.

  The Vernal Fall abates her pleasant speed
    And hesitates to take the final plunge,
  For rumors reach her that another greed
    Awaits her in the Valley of the Sponge.

  The Brothers envy the accord of mind
    And peace of purpose (by the good deplored
  As honor among Commissioners) which bind
    That confraternity of crime, the Board.

  The Half-Dome bows its riven face to weep,
    But not, as formerly, because bereft:
  Prophetic dreams afflict him when asleep
    Of losing his remaining half by theft.

  Ambitious knaves! has not the upper sod
    Enough of room for every crime that crawls
  But you must loot the Palaces of God
    And daub your filthy names upon the walls?