S T O R M – S T A Y E D

When the center of faith to the fireside has shiftedAnd life is confined within four solid walls;Then memory for comfort stands touching our shoulderAnd fancy for favor sits close by our side,And drifts may pile deeper and winds may grow colder,But down in our hearts there are green fields to ride.

With the smoke from our pipes like a meadow mist trailing,With the hum of the storm-wind like hooves in our earsAcross the big pastures in dream we go sailing…..

For some there are scenes of their youth to recover;Wild musters, wild round-ups in sagebrush and sand,From the fenceless far places that lack not a loverSo long as the snaffle lies light to the hand.Though snowflakes be whirling and highways be driftedThough hounds doze in kennels and nags in their stallsThere’s never a storm-cloud too dark to be liftedWhen dream-logs are burning in horse-lovers’ halls.

—Will H. Ogilvie