When She Was Born Upon That Kansas Hill
Soft April tiptoed through the prairie grass,
Bidding the early meadow-larks be still
And listen for the coming soul to pass.
It came with soundless music from the deep,
Fulfilled with superhuman harmony
That charmed the waiting Easter-bells to sleep.
And made them dream of mornings yet to be,
When she should romp that hill and greet the sun
With her clear treble and drink the spicy air
And pulse in time with all the life begun
In that soft season of what is sweet and fair.
Oh, there was joy enough that April mom
Over the, Kansas Hill where she was born!
___William Herbert Carruth
Contemporary Kansas Poetry
Helen Rhoda Hoopes
(Kansas City: Joseph D. Havens Company. 1927)