It grips me as if it had hands.
The stars in the night, how they glisten!
The plains in the day, how they spread!
There's room to stand up in, and listen,
And know there's a God overhead.
And then, when the summer is coming
And the cattle start out on the trails,
And you hearken at dawn to the drumming
Of prairie-hens down in the swales.
Why, Italy simply ain't in it!—