We Thought We Were Done With These

I Have Fallen In Love With American Names, The Sharp Names That Never Get Fat, The Snakeskin-titles Of Mining-claims, The Plumed War-bonnet Of Medicine Hat, Tucson And Deadwood And Lost Mule Flat.

Our Earth Is But A Small Star In A Great Universe. Yet Of It We Can Make, If We Choose, A Planet Unvexxed By War, Untroubled By Hunger Or Fear, Undivided By Senseless Distinctions Of Race, Color Or Theory.

If Two New Hampshiremen Aren't A Match For The Devil, We Might As Well Give The Country Back To The Indians.

A Phrase May Come To Me As I Am Walking, And, Once I Write It Down In My Journal, The Rest Of The Poem Will Unravel From That Catalyst.

When Daniel Boone Goes By At Night The Phantom Deer Arise And All Lost, Wild America Is Burning In Their Eyes.