here in the wild country,
the wolves sing their mournful lullaby
to the young ones snuggled in the lofts,
‘neath ceilings of hewn old timbers
on beds of soft, soft wool, unspun, raw from the sheep that range the meadows
in the slow, slow summertime.
here in the Outlands
at the far, far reaches of the prairie
a few miles beyond where the frontier used to be,
the sturdy souls with their weathered faces doggedly build their rugged peace,
row by row, day by day,
this hard-earned harmony forged between an unforgiving land and an undefeated few.
they live the old and ancient way of life out of which new worlds are brought forth,
begrudgingly yet always eventually,
these men in their dusty dungarees and their chambray shirts,
these women in their hand-sewn dresses of sky blue calico and ginger brown.
they rise early, they must
to kick the Eden dew off the newborn dawn
to outwork the sun and make him give his honest wage,
to kiss the moon good-night,
then to pray and fall asleep,
only to do it all once more again,
to do it all once more again,
yes, in the wild country,
here where the sky goes on and on forever
and where the stars therein fall down as angel rain
to fill these Outlandish hearts with holy light of a holy vision,
with the fragrance that wafts in from Eden’s distant woods,
a piney scent of what was meant to be
when life was but land and God and me and thee,
when life was but land and God and me and thee.
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