They are not from the winds of the town.
O I lean to the rush of the desert air
And the bite of the desert sand,
I feel the hunger, the thirst and despair—
And the joy of the still border land!
For the ways of the city are blocked to the end
With the grim procession of death—
The treacherous love and the shifting friend
And the reek of a multitude's breath.
But the arms of the Desert are lean and slim