Sunflowers in the Corn
There's a certain day in summer that I always
recognize,
Though I'm far away from prairie land and sun,
By the pulling at my heart-strings and the aching in
my eyes,
And I know that back in Kansas, harvest's done.
The mellow sun is gleaming on the stacks of ripened
wheat,
The stubble-field is empty and forlorn;
With a hoe across my shoulder and barefooted in
the heat,
I am off to cut the sunflowers in the corn.
Oh, what mystery of magic down the green and
gracious aisles,
Lures me on and on forever to the end;
The flapping corn is whispering while summer bends
and smiles;
The warm, wind scampers, shouting, "Follow
friend."
He is all about me tugging, with his shoulder pressed
to mine,
"Come and catch me, don't you feel my circling
arm?
Oh, there never was a farmer boy with comrade such
as thine;
See, I flush thy cheek with kisses, what's the
harm?"
The corn is waving o'er me and the swelling ears
are sweet
Where the silver floss is pushing from the white.
What a wealth of scarletmallow bloom is crimsoning
my feet;
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-
rageous pest,
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,
flaunting grace;
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-
producer,too,
And I've come to chop you, Tony--tumble down.
What a revelation dawning, what a wonder over-
head,
All the tender, over-arching azure dome.
With the sun ablaze above. me, is it prairie paths I
tread ?
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
spider swung,
While milk-weeds chamber Pixies in each pod.
Oh, 'tis fairyland, 'tis fairyland, and I a warrior
stout,
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
gleam.
Forward--once again the supper-horn
And I wander home at twilight (Can it be I only
dream?)
From a day of awful carnage in the corn.
___Willard Wattles
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