The spirit of the land grew strong in him,
Became the very essence of his soul.
At seedtime and at harvest he would brim
With joy. He gently drove the mare with foal
Before the plow, one of his shining team,
Or pulling swaying loads of meadow hay.
Often he paused while driving through the stream
To let the thirsty horses drink. When day
Was gently closed by one clear killdeer-note,
He viewed the stars above the fields of wheat--
God and the land were his, and from his throat
A prayer ascended through air country-sweet.
No robot task to dwarf his mind and limb,
The spirit of the land grew strong in him.
