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PRAIRIE SONGS
The moonlight is white on the river,
And the long, frozen miles of the plain
Seem to shrink in the north wind and shiver And wish it was summer again.
It's different where you are, I reckon,
Leastways from the books it must be,
Where the green hills of Italy beckon And the Tiber sings down to the sea;
Where the red roses always are climbing And the air smells of olives and pines,
And at evening the vesper bells' chiming Floats up toward the far Apennines.
You like it, no doubt, and you'd never
See beauties that nature can hold Where the snow lies in drifts on the river
And the prairies are empty and cold.
But somehow I wouldn't forego it
For all of those soft, southern lands.
I breathe it and feel it and know it; It grips me as if it had hands.
The stars in the night, how they glisten!
The plains in the day, how they spread! There's room to stand up in, and listen,
And know there's a God overhead.
And then, when the summer is coming
And the cattle start out on the trails,
And you hearken at dawn to the drumming Of prairie-hens down in the swales,
Why, Italy simply ain't in it! —
But, Miss, here I'm talking too free.
Excuse me; my thoughts for a minute Got sort of the better of me. |
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