Unknown author; this poem was found on the door of an old prospector's cabin in southern Nevada.
Mornin' on the desert, and the wind is blowin' free,
And it's ours, jest for the breathin' so let's fill up, you and me.
No more stuffy cities, where you have to pay to breathe,
Where the helpless human creatures move and throng and strive and seethe.
Mornin' on the desert, and the air is like wine,
And it seems like all creation has been made for me and mine.
No house to stop my vision, save a neighbor miles away,
And the little 'dobe shanty that belongs to me and May.
Lonesome? Not a minute! Why I've got these mountains here,
That was put here just to please me, with their blush and frown and cheer.
They're waiting when the summer sun gets too sizzlin' hot,
An' we jest go campin' in 'em with a pan and coffee pot.
Mornin' on the desert — I can smell the sagebrush smoke,
I hate to see it burnin', but the land must sure be broke.
Aint it jest a pity that wherever man may live,
He tears up much that's beautiful that the good God has to give?
"Sagebrush aint so pretty?" — Well all eyes don't see the same.
Have you ever saw the moonlight turn it to a silvery flame?
An' that greasewood thicket yonder — Well, it smells jest awful sweet
When the night wind has been shakin' it — for its smell is hard to beat.
Lonesome? Well, I guess not! I've been lonesome in town,
But I sure do love the desert with its stretches wide and brown.
All day through the sagebrush here the wind is blowin' free,
An' it's ours jest for the breathin' so let's fill up, you and me.