The sunrise plains are a tender haze And the sunset seas are gray, But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze Over me and the big today. What good to me is a vague "may be" Or a mournful "might have been," For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn And the world began when I was born And the world is mine to win. THE WIND IS BLOWIN' My tired hawse nickers for his own home bars; A hoof clicks out a spark. The dim creek flickers to the lonesome stars; The trail twists down the dark. The ridge pines whimper to the pines below. The wind is blowin' and I want you so. The birch has yellowed since I saw you last, The Fall haze blued the creeks, The big pine bellowed as the snow swished past, But still, above the peaks, The same stars twinkle that we used to know. The wind is blowin' and I want you so. The stars up yonder wait the end of time But earth fires soon go black. I trip and wander on the trail I climb-- A fool who will look back To glimpse a fire dead a year ago. The wind is blowin' and I want you so. Who says the lover kills the man in me? Beneath the day's hot blue This thing hunts cover and my heart fights free To laugh an hour or two. But now it wavers like a wounded doe. The wind is blowin' and I want you so. ON BOOT HILL Up from the prairie and through the pines, Over your straggling headboard lines Winds of the West go by. You must love them, you booted dead, More than the dreamers who died in bed-- You old-timers who took your lead Under the open sky! Leathery knights of the dim old trail, Lawful fighters or scamps from jail, Dimly your virtues shine. Yet who am I that I judge your wars, Deeds that my daintier soul abhors, Wide-open sins of the wide outdoors, Manlier sins than mine. Dear old mavericks, customs mend. I would not glory to make an end Marked like a homemade sieve. But with a touch of your own old pride Grant me to travel the trail I ride. Gamely and gaily, the way you died, Give me the nerve to live. Ay, and for you I will dare assume Some Valhalla of sun and room Over the last divide. There, in eternally fenceless West, Rest to your souls, if they care to rest, Or else fresh horses beyond the crest And a star-speckled range to ride.