The scattering sage stands thin and tense br As though afraid of the barbed-wire fence; br A windmill purrs in the lazy breeze br And a mocker sings in the pepper trees, br And beneath their shadows, gold and blue, br Hangs the old red olla, rimmed with dew: br Where the valley quail in the twilight call, br As the sunset fades on the 'dobe wall, br Just where the foothill trail comes down, br I have made my home on the edge of town. br br A few green acres fenced and neat, br By a road that will never become a street; br And once in a while, down the dusty way br A traveler comes at the end of the day; br A desert rat or some outland tramp, br Seeking a place of his evening camp; br The door of my 'dobe is four feet wide, br And there's always a bed and a meal, inside. br br And many a one of the wights that roam, br Has stopped at my house and found a home: br And many a tale of these outland folk br Has furnished a tang to the evening smoke, br While the stars shone down on our dwelling-place, br And the moon peered in at a dusky face. br br Singers, they, of the open land; br The timbered peak and the desert sand, br Peril and joy of the hardy quest, br Trail and pack of he unspoiled West: br Though crowded back to the lone, last range, br Their dream survives that will never change. br br When the hill-stream roars from the far-off height, br And the rain on the patio dances white; br And the log in my winter fireplace gleams, br And my Airedale whimpers his hunting-dreams; br Should a boot-heel grate on the portal floor, br Should I hear a knock at the dripping door, br Then I know that Romance has again come down br From the high, far hills, to the edge of town.