|Well, I wouldn't call it a desert, he said,
I have a tree!
I don't see that anyone would need
To pity me.
With a fine big cottonwood breaking the glare
Of yellow sky,
It doesn't seem any more, to stare
So hot and high.
And the tree makes, at night, when the sheep are
Some place to go;
Through it, the stars do not look, he said,
So hot and low . . .
May Williams Ward
(Atlanta: The Bozart Press. 1929)