OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS

Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger,Out where the smile dwells a little longer,That’s where the West begins;Out where the sun is a little brighter,Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter,Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter,That’s where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,Out where friendship’s a little truer,That’s where the West begins;Out where a fresher breeze is blowing,Where there’s laughter in every streamlet flowing,Where there’s more of reaping and less of sowing,That’s where the West begins;

Out where the world is in the making,Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,That’s where the West begins;Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing,Where there’s more of giving and less of buying,And a man makes friends without half trying —That’s where the West begins.

- ARTHUR CHAPMAN

THE WOODS ARE LOVELY

It seems like every year, as soon as the temperature drops and the snow starts showing its face, I reach for the Robert Frost pocket anthology pictured above. (Sweet, sweet Windsor.) One of his most famous and a personal favorite:

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Whose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village, though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer 5To stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake. 10The only other sounds the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep, 15And miles to go before I sleep.

Watch: Robert Frost reading "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening"

Night Trails

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