Through miles of green cornfields that lusty And strong face the sun and rejoice In his heat, where the brown bees go dusty With pollen from flowers of their choice, ’Mong myriads down by the river Who offer their honey, the train Flies south with a whir and a shiver, Flies south through the lowlands that quiver With ripening grain-- Fair wheat, like a lady for fancies, Who bends to the breeze, while the corn Held stiff all his stubborn green lances The moment his curled leaf was born; And grapes, where the vineyards are sweeping The shores of the river whose tide-- Slow moving, brown tide--holds the keeping Of War and of Peace that lie sleeping, Couched lions, each side.…
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