NIGHT TRAILS
You never have seen, nor you never will see—The stars at their best and the moon hanging free—And you never will know what night ought to be—'Til you are out on the trail, all alone—With the call of the West ringing out like a shout—With the wide, spreading plains all around and about—And the smell of the sage where the trail's running out—And the breeze with a tang of its own.
You never have known and you never will know—The silence that speaks 'til your soul is aglow—With, maybe it's God, and you're whispering low—To your bronc, which is proper and right—For broncs understand, they're a part of the place—With stars and the moon and far open space—And the soft desert wind sort of kissing your face—The spell of the plains in the night.
You never have found, nor you never will find—The rest to a heart or the peace to a mind—Where men can forget and the world is behind—'Til you've stood on the trail that is dim—The breeze dies away and the dome of the sky—Hangs lower and lower 'til stars are close by—And earth fades away and the heavens are nigh—On the plains—in the night—just with Him.
- Griff Crawford, June 30, 1931, Amarillo Globe