Willa Cather (1873-1947), Death Comes for the Archbishop
, book 9, chapter 3:
In New Mexico he always awoke a young man; not until he rose and
began to shave did he realize that he was growing older. His first
consciousness was a sense of the light dry wind blowing in through
the windows, with the fragrance of hot sun and sage-brush and sweet
clover; a wind that made one's body feel light and one's heart cry
"To-day, to-day," like a child's.
Beautiful surroundings, the society of learned men, the charm of noble women, the graces of art, could not make up to him for the loss of those light-hearted mornings of the desert, for that wind that made one a boy again. He had noticed that this peculiar quality in the air of new countries vanished after they were tamed by man and made to bear harvests. Parts of Texas and Kansas that he had first known as open range had since been made into rich farming districts, and the air had quite lost that lightness, that dry aromatic odour. The moisture of plowed land, the heaviness of labour and growth and grain-bearing, utterly destroyed it; one could breathe that only on the bright edges of the world, on the great grass plains or the sage-brush desert.
That air would disappear from the whole earth in time, perhaps; but long after his day. He did not know just when it had become so necessary to him, but he had come back to die in exile for the sake of it.
Something soft and wild and free, something that whispered
to the ear on the pillow, lightened the heart, softly, softly
picked the lock, slid the bolts, and released the prisoned spirit
of man into the wind, into the blue and gold, into the morning,
into the morning!