PRAIRIE WINDS.
89
Through fields of rustling corn it came
And acres broad of bearded wheat,
Past hillsides clad with evergreen
And orchards sweet.
It rifled scent from clover fields
Where harvesters have been at work,
And ruffled little running brooks
Where mosses lurk.
It bears the note of piping frogs,
The stir of tender, untried wings—
Of lowing kine, and homely sounds
Of barnyard things.
O barren Land! what dost thou dream
Beneath these surging winds that bear
The echoes of a life which thou
Canst never share?
Dost thou not long to break thy calm—
To know that living, sweet unrest?
And feel the tread of busy feet
Upon thy breast?
