Sunflowers in the Corn
There's a certain day in summer that I always
Though I'm far away from prairie land and sun,
By the pulling at my heart-strings and the aching in
And I know that back in Kansas, harvest's done.
The mellow sun is gleaming on the stacks of ripened
The stubble-field is empty and forlorn;
With a hoe across my shoulder and barefooted in
I am off to cut the sunflowers in the corn.
Oh, what mystery of magic down the green and
Lures me on and on forever to the end;
The flapping corn is whispering while summer bends
The warm, wind scampers, shouting, "Follow
He is all about me tugging, with his shoulder pressed
"Come and catch me, don't you feel my circling
Oh, there never was a farmer boy with comrade such
See, I flush thy cheek with kisses, what's the
The corn is waving o'er me and the swelling ears
Where the silver floss is pushing from the white.
What a wealth of scarletmallow bloom is crimsoning
There's a turtle--watch him scramble out of site.
Why, there's every prairie creature hereafter dove
upon her nest;
Two white eggs beneath a friendly cockle-bur;
Lucky thing for'you, old cocky. You're a most out-
But I'll pass you by because you shelter her.
Here's a sunflower--watch him nodding with his
saucy, swarthy face,
Golden ear-ringed,, don't you see the gypsy king?
Amber beads bedangled o'er him with a frankly,
How he jostles Mr. Cornstalk, poor old thing.
Here, you'll have to stop,it, Tony, for you quite
forget that you
Are a tramp, for all gaudy, gilded crown;
You're a vagrant, and a dead-beat; you're a non-
And I've come to chop you, Tony--tumble down.
What a revelation dawning, what a wonder over-
All the tender, over-arching azure dome.
With the sun ablaze above. me, is it prairie paths I
No, 'tis fairyland, 'tis fairyland I roam.
Titania is swinging in a silken hammock hung
From burly thistle-top to goldenrod;
There's a Puck on every jimson-weed where once a
While milk-weeds chamber Pixies in each pod.
Oh, 'tis fairyland, 'tis fairyland, and I a warrior
With saber-steel a-flashing in the sun.
How I charge the crazy gypsy kings and put them
all to rout;
Watch the long battalions waver, break, and run.
Hark, I hear a bugle calling me, the battle-pennons
Forward--once again the supper-horn
And I wander home at twilight (Can it be I only
From a day of awful carnage in the corn.