Upon Leaving The "Golden West"

Gray sage along the "Little Missouri"
Painted buttes and sapphire sky
The wild wind moans a requiem
And the river sings Goodbye.
The ranch house stands lone by the river
And the snow caps gleam in the sun
And the long, long trail far distant winds
Where the fleet footed mustangs run.
There is no round-up by the river now
No cattle tramp the sage
The rope and the bridle are rotting
And the saddle is green with age.
The strange formations-green and yellow
Gray ghosts-under the moon
At night they join the other shades
With dawn fading all too soon.
Oh! the long, long trail is calling
From the sage 'neath the autumn haze
But I left my shadow to ride the trail
On which I no longer gaze.

MARGARET ILLINGTON BOWES