"@3If I should sell my pony And ride the range no more, Nail up my hat and my silver spurs Above my shanty door.@1" -- Edwin Ford Piper. THE wind swept the prairies with a cry of joy; the prairies with yellow loam hidden by house forms, human forms and green. The prairie people did not need the wind. They have their electric fans. The prairie people did not need the cry of joy. They have their comic moving pictures, their parks, their children. The wind, then, must have a secret with the prairies, sweeping it with a cry of joy. The wind must have an old friend, a boon companion to lock arms with and saunter miles in the easy, careless manner of chums. The wind's secret must be older than fifty April moons, older than the coming of the Spanish to San Salvador. . . Some day the wind will come very slowly, inquiringly, as a man returning to his birthplace after thirty years' absence; as a man, apprehensively, looking among the tomb stones. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOUTH IMPERTURBABLE by CONRAD AIKEN CONTRA MORTEM: THE GREAT DEATH by HAYDEN CARRUTH FOR OUR BETTER GRACES by JAMES GALVIN THE WAR THAT ISN'T WHAT YOU THINK by JAMES GALVIN GOSSAMER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON IRELAND; WRITTEN FOR THE ART AUTOGRAPH DURING IRISH FAMINE by SIDNEY LANIER |