Eight: All the Way Back to New England
In verdurous tumult far away
The prairie billows gleam,
Upon their crests in blessing rests
The noontide’s gracious beam.
Low quivering vapors steaming dim
The level splendors break
Where languid lilies deck the rim
Of some land-circled lake.
Far in the east like low-hung clouds
The waving woodlands lie;
Far in the west the glowing plain
Melts warmly in the sky.
No accent wounds the reverent air,
No footprint dints the sod,—
Lone in the light the prairie lies,
Wrapt in a dream of God.
John Hay.
EIGHT: ALL THE WAY BACK TO NEW ENGLAND