He lived the poetry he heard and saw.
"But weave my crown of gold-ripe wheat," he said.
God's primal handiwork held not a flaw.
The land's broad soul reached out to him and pled
To be released from barren waste. He felt
It breathing as the rich black furrows turned,
And leaping, green with April. As he knelt
Before the autumn's largess--he had earned--
He heard its song of immortality.
Recalling childhood hours, my soul is stirred
To sing of pristine beauty ... Can it be
His poems flowing in my lyric word?
