To Judge A. H. Willie

I crave not for her cities
Not towns where man hath trod,
But I love her lonely prairies,
Her great wide skies of God.

I love her lazy rivers
That wed the Mexique Sea
An oh, her heaven-born breezes
Breathe rarest songs to me.

Oh, if I could but sing them,
Could hymn pure Nature's bars,
Those songs would live forever
And echo through the stars.

Would echo till the angels
Attuned the free refrains,
And breathed celestial music-
The poetry of the plains!

I love the Mesa Mountains
That woo the Texas skies,
'Neath azure veils of beauty,
They dream of Paradise.

I love her sweeps of distance,
Her drowsy miraged seas,
Her choirs of singing songsters,
Her weeping bannered trees.

And when the sunset's laces
Befringe the couch of night
I love her royal pictures
Of far eternal light.

Oh, if I could but paint them,
Could hint the twilight's art,
What scenes of heavenly splendor
Would gild each human heart.

Vain, vain such fond ambition,
Man is but earthy sod,
His efforts are as nothing
Besides the works of God.

Yes; you can have the city,
Its fuss and fun and care

Give me a life of freedom,

'Midst castles in the air!

Your operas' stifled music
Contains no songs for me,-
I want the vibrant breezes,
The anthems of the sea.

Give me the low of cattle,
The cayotes lone 'ki-oo!'
The sightings of the Norther,
The owl's 'whit-tu-woo!'

I ask not for companions
Whose presence might intrude;
My dearest friend is Nature,-
I love the solitude.

Ah, who would then be richer?
My wealth is all divine-
The clouds, the stars, the prairies,
The world, the world, is mine.