| I love my prairies, they are mine |
| From zenith to horizon line, |
| Clipping a world of sky and sod |
| Like the bended arm and wrist of God. |
| |
| I love their grasses. The skies |
| Are larger, and my restless eyes |
| Fasten on more of earth and air |
| Than seashore furnishes anywhere. |
| |
| I love the hazel thickets; and the breeze, |
| The never resting prairie winds. The trees |
| That stand like spear points high |
| Against the dark blue sky |
| |
| Are wonderful to me. I love the gold |
| Of newly shaven stubble, rolled |
| A royal carpet toward the sun, fit to be |
| The pathway of a deity. |
| |
| I love the life of pasture lands; the songs of birds |
| Are not more thrilling to me than the herd's |
| Mad bellowing or the shadow stride |
| Of mounted herdsmen at my side. |
| |
| I love my prairies, they are mine |
| From high sun to horizon line. |
| The mountains and the cold gray sea |
| Are not for me, are not for me. |
| |
| Hamlin Garland. |
| Home they brought her warrior dead: |
| She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: |
| All her maidens, watching, said, |
| "She must weep or she will die." |
| Then they praised him, soft and low, |
| Call'd him worthy to be loved, |
| Truest friend and noblest foe; |
| Yet she neither spoke nor moved. |
| Stole a maiden from her place, |
| Lightly to the warrior stept, |
| Took the face-cloth from the face; |
| Yet she neither moved nor wept. |
| Rose a nurse of ninety years, |
| Set his child upon her knee— |
| Like summer tempest came her tears— |
| "Sweet my child, I live for thee." |
| |
| Alfred, Lord Tennyson. |