There Is No Gilding Of Setting Sun

There Is No Gilding Of Setting Sun Or Glamor Of Poetry To Light Up The Ferocious And Endless Toil Of The Farmers' Wives.

I Remember A Hundred Lovely Lakes, And Recall The Fragrant Breath Of Pine And Fir And Cedar And Poplar Trees. The Trail Has Strung Upon It, As Upon A Thread Of Silk, Opalescent Dawns And Saffron Sunsets. It Has Given Me Blessed Release From Care And Worry And The Troubled Thinking Of Our Modern Day. It Has Been A Return To The Primitive And The Peaceful. Whenever The Pressure Of Our Complex City Life Thins My Blood And Benumbs My Brain, I Seek Relief In The Trail; And When I Hear The Coyote Wailing To The Yellow Dawn, My Cares Fall From Me - I Am Happy.

From The Great Trees The Locusts Cry In Quavering Ecstatic Duo-a Boy Shouts A Wild Call-a Mourning Dove In The Blue Distance Sobs-the Wind Wanders By, Heavy With Odors Of Corn And Wheat And Melon Vines; The Trees Tremble With Delirious Joy As The Breeze Greets Them, One By One-now The Oak Now The Great Sycamore, Now The Elm.

My Recollection Of A Hundred Lovely Lakes Has Given Me Blessed Release From Care And Worry And The Troubled Thinking Of Our Modern Day. It Has Been A Return To The Primitive And The Peaceful.

Whenever The Pressure Of Our Complex City Life Thins My Blood And Numbs My Brain, I Seek Relief In The Trail; And When I Hear The Coyote Wailing To The Yellow Dawn, My Cares Fall From Me - I Am Happy.