“The level field of gray-green buffalo grass
Still narrows as the sweating bays plod on,
And that black ribbon at the ploughtail rolls
Beside its drier neighbor. Clevis gear
And doubletree complain while the plough sings,
Shearing through grass roots, burying weed and flower,
Unhousing worm and grub for eager beaks,
The blackbird and the meadow-lark that flit
To the heels of the ploughman.
Never any more
Shall wild flock pasture here on grasses wild;
But bearded wheat shall flourish, corn shall ear,
The weeds shall burr and blossom, strong battalions.
And man shall serve the land in hunger and sorrow,
Worship and love the bounteous, old earth-mother,
Rejoicing in the furrows of his field.
(Edwin Ford Piper)”
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