The Platte, long wandering, but caught at last In old Missouri's arms, told there a tale . . . The prairies heard: like seekers of the grail They hurried on a quest and cleaving fast, Wide windy golden seas of harvest, passed, Green sandalled through Nebraska on a trail That Kansas follows, too. It leads where pale Virginity gives birth to snow and blast. . . They near and fling rich flowered robes away; In scant grass vesture, pilgrim plains are torn And bruised, yet stumble forward. Tiptoe, they; Unheeding spite of stone and thrust of thorn; Pause on a cliff and Colorado thrills With their exultant cry: "The hills! The hills!" |