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.<br /><br />Henry Herbert Knibbs<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-edge-of-town/
