At morning, when the red sun leaps
On desert waste and buttes of sand,
Yonder where yet the cactus keeps
Its stubborn clutch with deathless hand,
The Navajo's wild song of praise
Rings out across his wind-blown hill
To thank his gods, in his own ways,
That he may walk his own land still.

Land of much sun and seldom rain,
Land of the silence and the light,
Land of the softened, shadowed plain,
Dim 'neath the starlit paths of night,
Land of great moons that come and go,
Of hushed arroyos dead and dried,
Serene hath here the Navajo,
Since years forgotten, lived and died.

Here through he years with plenty filled,
Or lean with hunger, want and thirst,
Whate'er the gods he worshipped willed,
With much or little, blessed or cursed,
Still to his own land hath he clung,
Still on its ancient trails he went,
His spells he wove, his songs he sung,
Glad in his soul and well content.

Where'er your land may be, or mine,
Lush with green fields and fertile vales,
Rich with its herds and fat with kine,
Fair with soft hills and meadowed dales;
Through towering dome and penciled spire
up to the skies our hands have thrown,
Yet, in his Land of Heart's Desire,
The Navajo will seek his own.

Gods of the sun and singing rains,
Spirits of noon and dusky night
That brood above the desert plains,
Winged with the darkness or the light,
Your blessings to his scant fields bring;
Make full his springs to leap and flow;
Make glad the songs his lips shall sing,
And peace be with the Navajo.