Dripping Springs.
TO MY BROTHER—D. G. SLAUGHTER.
SOMETHING moves my pen; its former chime
I fain would drop, and gladly lose the rhyme
That lights my verse as ore lights up a mine,
If on my canvas I could curve and line
These quiet hills, and for an hour could say
I’d caught the warmth that on the landscape lay,
And that I dreamed as artists sometimes dream