A Kansas Sandstorm(with apology to Mr. Wordsworth)
The sand is too much with us; morn and noon,
Hurling and swirling, it lays waste our powers;
Little we see of nature, for by hours
We are prisoners, held by this wild monsoon.
The trees are barren, stricken by the sand's buffoon:
The wind that is now howling at all hours
And is upgathering to strike anew.
With this, this sand, we are sadly out of tune.
It warps our souls;--Great Pan! I'd rather be
A reed in the river, uprooted, torn;
So might I, sitting on the bank with thee,
Hear music that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of a peaceful, quiet lea,
Where wind and sand move not and are foresworn.
Edited by May William Ward
(New York: Henry Harrison. 1935)