In mesquite, oak, and cedar, limestone hills
Rise towards the sky, a sight that thrills
In summer heat or winter rain, and stills
The anxious worry of a heart beset
By many cares. And in the springs of wet
Years, flowers bloom in colors bright and set
At ease or raise in joy the souls of those
Who look on them. But it is not the rose
That does such in the hills, as each one knows
Who has the wildflower carpet seen
Stretching out amid the trees’ new green
In colors that reflect a sunrise scene.
Such only happens in the limestone hills;
No wonder, then, that the Hill Country thrills!

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