There Is No Gilding Of Setting Sun

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.

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.

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

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.