Shall I leave the hills, the high, far hills
That shadow the morning plain?
Shall I leave the desert sand and sage that gleams in the winter rain?
Shall I leave the ragged bridle-trail to ride in the city street—
To snatch a song from the printed word,
Or sit at a master's feet?

To barter the sting of the mountain wind for the choking fog and smoke?
To barter the song of the mountain stream for the babble of city folk?
To lose my grip on the god I know and fumble among the creeds?
Oh rocks and pines of the high, far hills,
Hear the lisp of the valley reeds!