New-York tribune., 1918-07-07
Prairie
(Frons Poetry)
r WAS born on the prairie, and the milk
l. of it's wheat, the red Of its clover, the
cvna of TIA women raye me a song and

r WAS born on the prnir1e, ana inc fHHh
l. of it's wheat, the red Of its clover, the
ewes of it's women, gave me song and
slogan.
Here the water went down, tho icebergs
slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys
hisscd, and the black loan came, and the
yellow sandy loan.
Here between the sheds Of the Rocky Noun
tains and the Appnlachians. here now
morning-star fixes a fire sign over the
timber claims and COW pastures, the corn
belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches.
Here the gray geese 60 five hundred miles
and back with wind under their wings,
honking the cry for new home.
Here know will banker after nothing so
much as one more sunrise, or a sky moon
of fire doubled to river moon of water
The prairie sings to me in the forenoon
and know in the night rest easy in the
prairie arms, on the prairie heart.
After the sunburn Of the day
handling pitchfork at hayrack-
after the eggs and biscuit and coffee,
the pearl-gray haystacks
in the cleaning
are cool prayers
to the harvest hands.
In the city, among the walls, the overland
passenger train is choked and the pistons
hiss and the wheels curse.
On the prairie the overland fits on phantom
wheels, and the sky and the soil between
them muffle the pistons and cheer the
wheels.
I am here when the cities are gone.
I am here before the cities come.
l nourished the lonely men on horses.
I will keep the laughing men who ride
iron.
I am dust Of the dust Of men,
The running water babbled to the deer, the
cottontail, the gopher.
You came in wagons, making streets and
schools,
Kin of the ak and rifle, kin of the plough
and horse,
Singing Yankee Doodle, Old Dan Tucker,
Turkey in the Straw.
You in the coonskin cap at Lighthouse
door hearing lone wolf howl,
You at sod-house door reading the bliz-
yards and chinooks let loose from Medi-
cine Hat,
I am dust of your dust, as am brother
and mother
To the copper faces working in flint and
clay,
The singing women and their sons Of
thousand years ago,
Marching single file the timber and the
plain.
l hold the dust of these amid changing
stars.
I last while old wars are fought, while
peace broods motherlike,
While new wars arise and the fresh killings
of young men.
l fed the boys who went to France in great
dark days.
AppomattoX is beautiful word to me, and
so is Valley Forge and the Marne and
Verdun,
deaths
Of sons and daughters take peace or war,
say nothing and wait.
Have you seen a red sunset drip over ono
of my cornfields, the shore Of night stars.
the wave lines Of dawn up wheat
valley?
Have you heard my thrashing crews yelling
in the chaff of strawpile and the run
nlng wheat of the wagonboards, my corn
huskers, my harvest hands hauling crops.
singing dreams Of women, worlds, hori-
IONS!
Rivers cut a path fiat lands
The mountains stand up.
The salt oceans press in
and push on the coast lines
Towns on the 500 Line
towns on the Big Muddy,
laugh at each other for cubs
and tease children
headlight searches snowstorm
A funnel of white light shoots from over
the pilot Of the Pioneer Limited crossing
Wisconsin.
In the morning hours, in the dawn.
Inc sun puts out the stars of the skv
And the headlight of the limited train.
The fireman waves his hand to country
school-teacher on bobsled:
A boy, yellow hair, red scarf and mittens
on the bobsled; in his lunch box a pork
chop sandwich and Of gooseberry ME.
The phantom of yellow rooster Aaunt;nc
scarlet comb on top Of dung-nile
crying hallelujah to the streaks Of dav-
light;