These are the dim arcades where winds are sleeping And here, the graves where Torgun and Ole rest. Where is her busy tread and neat white cap; Where, his lusty shout that kept the oxen moving? The fields he plowed still yield to prairie men, And round-faced women churn and bake and harvest. The feral rifts still throw a drifting glow Through careless frills the trees wear for May mornings. Surely, while there are men of simple reasoning And men long scarred with earth-bred understanding, Democracy will wear green wreaths of promise. And stagnant waters parch from prairie suns. |