Born but to struggle, squalid and alone,
Broken and wandering in their early years.
When will they make our dusty streets their goal,
Within our attics hide their sacred tears?
When will they start our vulgar blood athrill
With living language — words that set us free?
When will they make a path of beauty clear
Between our riches and our liberty?
We must have many Lincoln-hearted men —
A city is not builded in a day —
And they must do their work, and come and go
While countless generations pass away.
The Poet's Town. [John G. Neihardt]
I
'Mid glad green miles of tillage
And fields where cattle graze,
A prosy little village,
You drowse away the days.
And yet — a wakeful glory
Clings round you as you doze;
One living lyric story
Makes music of your prose.
Here once, returning never,
The feet of song have trod;
And flashed — Oh, once forever! —
The singing Flame of God.
II
These were his fields Elysian:
With mystic eyes he saw
The sowers planting vision,
The reapers gleaning awe.