Shut in a shack on the prairie,
Travel is not for me;
So I pretend the waves of wheat
Are the sea.
I read of the French Revolution
To the windmill's creaking fret;
Its skeleton shadow a guillotine's
I never shall visit Venice;
But a rain pool gives back the moon
And scattering lights; I think it is like
I should like to see the Madonnas
Raphael's and the rest;
But it is sweet just to sit with my babe
At my breast.
May Williams Ward
(Atlanta: The Bozart Press. 1929)