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Corn Poems

Poems about corn, cornfields, popcorn, and all manner of corny subjects.

Table of Contents

  1. Popping Corn by Anonymous
  2. Cornfields by Mary Howitt
  3. Joy In the Corn Belt by C. L. Edson
  4. The Growing Corn by Frederick J. Atwood
  5. Walls of Corn by Ellen P. Allerton
  6. A Ballad of the Corn by S. H. M. Byers
  7. The Corn by Kate Cleary
  8. The Song of King Corn by Clarence Albert Murch
  9. Corn Is King by Bernhardt Paul Holst
  10. The Path Through the Corn by Dinah Maria [Mulock] Craik
  11. The Cornfield by Elizabeth Madox Roberts
  12. Amid the Corn by Hattie Howard
  13. Song of the Corn by Ellwood Roberts
  14. My Stalk of Corn by Ellen P. Allerton
  15. The Corn Song by John Greenleaf Whittier
  16. The Wind in the Corn by Edith Franklin Wyatt

  1. Popping Corn

    Indian Corn and Mexican Vase
    by Cordelia Wilson
    by Anonymous

    One autumn night, when the wind was high,
    And the rain fell in heavy plashes,
    A little boy sat by the kitchen fire,
    A-popping corn in the ashes;
    And his sister, a curly-haired child of three,
    Sat looking on, just close to his knee....

    Pop! pop! and the kernels, one by one,
    Came out of the embers flying;
    The boy held a long pine stick in his hand,
    And kept it busily plying;
    He stirred the corn, and it snapped the more,
    And faster jumped to the clean-swept floor.

    Part of the kernels flew one way,
    And a part hopped out the other;
    Some flew plump into the sister's lap,
    Some under the stool of the brother;
    The little girl gathered them into a heap,
    And called them a flock of milk-white sheep.

  2. Cornfields

    by Mary Howitt

    When on the breath of Autumn's breeze,
    From pastures dry and brown,
    Goes floating, like an idle thought,
    The fair, white thistle-down,—
    Oh, then what joy to walk at will
    Upon the golden harvest-hill!

    What joy in dreaming ease to lie
    Amid a field new shorn;
    And see all round, on sunlit slopes,
    The piled-up shocks of corn;
    And send the fancy wandering o'er
    All pleasant harvest-fields of yore!

    I feel the day; I see the field;
    The quivering of the leaves;
    And good old Jacob, and his house,—
    Binding the yellow sheaves!
    And at this very hour I seem
    To be with Joseph in his dream!

    I see the fields of Bethlehem,
    And reapers many a one
    Bending unto their sickles' stroke,
    And Boaz looking on;
    And Ruth, the Moabitess fair,
    Among the gleaners stooping there!

    Again, I see a little child,
    His mother's sole delight,—
    God's living gift of love unto
    The kind, good Shunammite;
    To mortal pangs I see him yield,
    And the lad bear him from the field.

    The sun-bathed quiet of the hills,
    The fields of Galilee,
    That eighteen hundred years ago
    Were full of corn, I see;
    And the dear Saviour take his way
    'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day.

    Oh, golden fields of bending corn,
    How beautiful they seem!
    The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves,
    To me are like a dream;
    The sunshine, and the very air
    Seem of old time, and take me there!

  3. Joy In the Corn Belt

    by C. L. Edson

    The seed is in the clover,
    The ear is in the shuck,
    The melons shout, "Come out, come out,
    And eat this garden-truck."

    The yellow ears are for the steers,
    The white are for the swine;
    Their hair and hides and bacon sides
    Are all for me and mine.

    The cider mug is by its jug,
    The sweet potatoes fry;
    And ma is shovin in the oven
    Pumpkin custard pie!

  4. The Growing Corn

    by Frederick J. Atwood

    Upon a thousand hills the corn
    Stands tall and rank and glossy green;
    Its broad leaves stir at early morn,
    And dewy diamonds drop between.

    A myriad banners wave o'erhead,
    And countless silken pennons fly;
    The tasseled plumes bend low, 't is said,
    And only silken ears know why.

    Those bending plumes—those upturned ears—
    Methinks it is the old, old story!
    Dame Nature still, with rapture hears
    The song she heard in Eden's glory.

    And so is wrought this miracle
    Of life and growth unto perfection,—
    A mystery that none may tell,
    Save that God gives to it direction.

  5. Walls of Corn

    by Ellen P. Allerton

    Smiling and beautiful, heaven's dome,
    Bends softly over our prairie home.

    But the wide, wide lands that stretched away
    Before my eyes in the days of May,

    The rolling prairies' billowy swell,
    Breezy upland and timbered dell,

    Stately mansion and hut forlorn,
    All are hidden by walls of corn.

    All wide the world is narrowed down,
    To the walls of corn, now sere and brown.

    What do they hold—these walls of corn,
    Whose banners toss on the breeze of morn?

    He who questions may soon be told;
    A great state's wealth these walls enfold.

    No sentinels guard these walls of corn,
    Never is sounded the warder's horn.

    Yet the pillars are hung with gleaming gold,
    Left all unbarred, though thieves are bold.

    Clothes and food for the toiling poor,
    Wealth to heap at the rich man's door;

    Meat for the healthy and balm for him
    Who moans and tosses in chamber dim;

    Shoes for the barefooted, pearls to twine
    In the scented tresses of ladies fine;

    Things of use for the lowly cot.
    Where (bless the corn!) want cometh not;

    Luxuries rare for the mansion grand,
    Gifts of a rich and fertile land;—

    All these things and so many more
    It would fill a book to name them o'er,

    Are hid and held in these walls of corn,
    Whose banners toss in the breeze of morn.

    Open the atlas, conned by rule,
    In the olden days of the district school.

    Point to the rich and bounteous land,
    That yields such fruit to the toiler's hand.

    "Treeless desert," they called it then,
    Haunted by beasts, forsaken by men.

    Little they knew what wealth untold,
    Lay hid where the desolate prairies rolled.

    Who would have dared, with brush or pen,
    As this land is now, to paint it then?

    And how would the wise ones have laughed in scorn,
    Had prophet foretold these walls of corn,
    Whose banners toss in the breeze of morn!

  6. A Ballad of the Corn

    by S. H. M. Byers

    Oh, the undulating prairies,
    And the fields of yellow corn,
    Like a million soldiers waiting for the fray.
    Oh, the rustling of the corn leaves
    Like a distant fairy's horn
    And the notes the fairy bugles seem to play.

    "We have risen from the bosom
    Of the beauteous mother earth,
    Where the farmer plowed his furrow straight and long.
    There was gladness and rejoicing
    When the summer gave us birth,
    In the tumult and the dancing and the song.

    "When the sumach turns to scarlet,
    And the vines along the lane
    Are garmented in autumn's golden wine—
    Then the land shall smile for plenty,
    And the toiler for his pain,
    When the soldiers of our army stand in line.

    "With our shining blades before us,
    And our banners flaming far,
    Want and hunger shall be slain forevermore.
    And the cornfield's lord of plenty
    In his golden-covered car
    Then shall stop at every happy toiler's door."

    Oh, the sunshine and the beauty
    On the fields of ripened corn,
    And the wigwams and the corn-rows where they stand.
    In the lanes I hear the music
    Of the faintly blowing horn
    And the blessed Indian summer's on the land.

  7. The Corn

    by Kate Cleary

    When the merry April morn
    Laughed the mad March winds to scorn,
    In the swirl of sun and showers,
    Were a million legions born;
    Ranked in rippled rows of green,
    With a dusky ridge between,
    O’er the western world was seen,
    The great army of the corn.

    And when in May-time days,
    The buttercups’ gold blaze
    Firefly-like flashed o’er hill and hollow
    And the pleasant prairie ways;
    Each battalion from the sod.
    Flags a-flutter and a-nod,
    Nearer heaven, nearer God,
    Crept to proffer perfect praise.

    And when the June-time heat
    Over all the land did fleet,
    The melody of meadow larks
    In mellow music beat
    Martial measures, to beguile
    The royal rank and file,
    That kept growing all the while
    To the sounds serene and sweet.

    When the fierce sun of July
    Rode relentlessly on high,
    And in the creeks the water bright
    All drop by drop ran dry;
    And, as from a furnace mouth,
    The hot winds of the south,
    Racked the corn with cruel drouth,
    It seemed that it would die.

    But the nights benign and blue
    Brought the blessed balm of dew,
    And baptized the corn in beauty
    Ever fresh and ever new;
    Till in amber August light,
    'Twas so golden that you might
    Fancy Midas touched the bright,
    Tender tassels it out-threw.

    Now the sweet September’s here,
    And the plover pipeth clear,
    And each shattered sheath of satin
    Holds a guerdon of good cheer;
    And the corn all ripe and high,
    Taller far than you or I,
    Standeth spear-like to the sky,
    In the sunset of the year!

  8. The Song of King Corn

    by Clarence Albert Murch

    The dews of heaven,
    The rains that fall,
    The fatness of earth,
    I claim them all.
    O’er mountain and plain
    My praises ring,
    O’er ocean and land
    I am King! I am King!

    O’er the green hills
    Flash my shining blades;
    Past dancing rills,
    Through sun-kissed glades
    Spread my serried ranks
    With a sweep and a swing,
    Till the eye is aweary,
    I am King! I am King!

    Cities and states
    Arise at my call.
    Bright gold bursts out
    Where my footsteps fall.
    Where my russet plumes
    In the breezes swing
    The glad earth laughs,
    For I am King! I’m King!

    I girdle the earth
    With shining bands,
    The groaning trains
    That sweep the sands,
    And ships that brave
    Old Ocean’s swing
    Are mine, all mine—
    I am King! I am King!

    Would you dethrone me?
    Not so, not so.
    Still the golden tide
    Shall swell and flow;
    The earth yield riches,
    The toilers sing,
    In the golden land
    Where Corn is King.

  9. Corn Is King

    by Bernhardt Paul Holst

    Hail to the golden corn,
    Whose stalks our fields adorn,
    Hail it as king;
    Plant it in fertile field,
    No grain will richer yield,
    Nor greater blessings wield,
    Its praises sing.

    Corn is the best of food,
    For man and beast is good,
    The nation's pride;
    Let all the people know,
    As seasons come and go,
    How best this grain to grow
    And health betide.

    Sweet is the tassel-bloom,
    Sweeter than rare perfume,
    And richer still;
    Soft are the yellow hair,
    As they the pollen bear,
    Down where the kernels are,
    Life to instill.

    Rich is the yellow grain,
    Nurtured by dew and rain,
    In summer time;
    Soon will the reapers come,
    Singing the harvest song,
    Joyous the harvest home,
    In every clime.

    We praise our God who gave
    This plant our land to save
    From famine dire;
    Let heartfelt thanks abound,
    Let hills and vales resound,
    Let all the plains rebound,
    To God aspire.

  10. The Path Through the Corn

    by Dinah Maria [Mulock] Craik

    Wavy and bright in the summer air,
    Like a pleasant sea when the wind blows fair,
    And its roughest breath has scarcely curled
    The green highway to a distant world,
    Soft whispers passing from shore to shore,
    As from hearts content, yet desiring more,
    Who feels forlorn,
    Wandering thus down the path through the corn?

    A short space since, and the dead leaves lay
    Moldering under the hedgerow grey,
    Nor hum of insect, nor voice of bird,
    O'er the desolate field was ever heard;
    Only at eve the pallid snow
    Blushed rose-red in the red sun-glow;
    Till, one blest morn,
    Shot up into life the young green corn.

    Small and feeble, slender and pale,
    It bent its head to the winter gale,
    Harkened the wren's soft note of cheer,
    Hardly believing spring was near:
    Saw chestnuts bud out and campions blow,
    And daisies mimic the vanished snow
    Where it was born,
    On either side of the path through the corn.

    The corn, the corn, the beautiful corn,
    Rising wonderful, morn by morn:
    First, scarce as high as a fairy's wand,
    Then, just in reach of a child's wee hand;
    Then growing, growing, tall, brave, and strong:
    With the voice of new harvests in its song;
    While in fond scorn
    The lark out-carols the whispering corn.

    A strange, sweet path, formed day by day,
    How, when, and wherefore, we cannot say,
    No more than of our life-paths we know,
    Whether our eyes shall ever see
    The wheat in the ear or the fruit on the tree;
    Yet, who's forlorn?
    He who watered the furrows can ripen the corn.

  11. The Cornfield

    by Elizabeth Madox Roberts

    I went across the pasture lot
    When not a one was watching me.
    Away beyond the cattle barns
    I climbed a little crooked tree.

    And I could look down on the field
    And see the corn and how it grows.
    Across the world and up and down
    In very straight and even rows.

    And far away and far away-
    I wonder if the farmer man
    Knows all about the corn and how
    It comes together like a fan.

  12. Amid the Corn

    by Hattie Howard

    When roasting ears are peeping through
    Their silken tassel curls,
    When corn leaves glisten in the dew
    Like ribbons strewn with pearls;
    When Phoebus' splendor is revealed
    And gilds the summer morn,
    I love to walk the furrowed field
    Among the rows of corn.

    It brings to mind those vanished days
    In adolescence sweet,
    When through familiar seas of maze
    With ardent, childish feet
    That never tired, the glebe I trod
    The "hired man" to warn
    Where grew the tares, or where a clod
    Obstructed hills of corn.

    A happy home upon the farm
    In memory holds a place,
    That city life with all its charm
    Can never quite efface.
    O give me back the days of yore!
    When I, a farmer born,
    In pantalet and pinafore
    Grew up amid the corn.

    O that I could to nature true
    From etiquette relax,
    And follow, as I used to do,
    Papa's unerring tracks!
    A scholar, who could wield the pen,
    Whose honors well were borne,
    Was he—this noblest, best of men—
    Who plowed and hoed the corn.

    I'd rather be, though dumb and droll,
    An effigy to-day,
    A man of straw upon a pole
    To scare the crows away,
    Than like a figure fashion-spun
    A palace to adorn,
    Disdainfully look down on one
    Who works amid the corn.

  13. Song of the Corn

    by Ellwood Roberts

    Have you seen a field of corn,
    On an early August morn?
    Shine its leaves, all moist with dew!
    How they glisten! How they gleam!
    All the blades a-rustling seem;
    Like to one who talks in dream,
    Thus they sing the whole day through:

    "Now the happy hour is near,
    When, upon each tall stalk here,
    Shall a tiny shoot appear,
    Which develops perfect ear;
    With its bright grains, even, clear,
    Rarest product of the year."

    I have paused and seemed to hear,
    In the rusthng corn-song clear,
    Like a happy undertone,
    Whisper, whether heard or dreamed,
    Language very plain it seemed,
    Such as I had never known.

    Says the rustling undertone:
    "'Twas for this, and this alone,
    Giant stalks of ours have grown,
    And their beauty here have shown—
    Strength and loveliness their own.

    "'Twas for this in merry May,
    That the seeds were hid away,
    In the earth—the grains of corn;
    Soon they sprouted, and a shoot
    Sent straight up, and, down, a root,
    Strength and beauty thus were born.

    "In the grain of corn a germ.
    Safe from frost, untouched by worm—
    Lay, within the mellow earth.
    Moisture, sunlight, warmth, were there,
    Right the state of soil and air—
    Each and all of them had share
    In the miracle of birth.

    "Loving was the farmer's care,
    Toiling all the long hours there,
    In the blazing glare of sun;
    Stirring soil, from day to day,
    Pulling every weed away,
    Lest it might the young growth stay,
    Lest some injury be done.

    "In the miracle of growth,
    Gentle rain and sunshine, both,
    Had their influence for good.
    There had come, with days of June,
    Dew of night and heat of noon;
    And the corn in beauty stood.

    "It was left for hot July,
    With its ever- glowing sky,
    To perfect the growth you see.
    While the sun its warm rays sent,
    Frequent showers their moisture lent,
    Force of fertile soil was spent—
    Wonder-workers all the three.

    "From the topmost blade, one dawn,
    Ere the dew of night was gone,
    Peeped the wondrous tassel down.
    Soon the nodding plumes were seen,
    Foam upon a sea of green—
    Of all triumphs this the crown.

    "Now the joyous time is near
    When, upon each tall stalk here,
    Shall in glory new appear
    Tiny shoot that makes the ear;
    With its bright grains, even, clear,
    Miracle of all the year."

    Here the gentle breeze that blew,
    Swelled a stormy gale into;
    And it swept across the field,
    Making every cornblade yield.
    Like sea waves, of tempest born,
    Rose and fell the waving corn.

    Now the gale, with shriek and moan,
    Drowned the dreamy undertone
    That I heard, or seemed to hear,
    All along, in whisper clear.
    It was lost in rustling roar,
    Gone the note I knew before.

    Surging, whirling sea of green!
    What could all the tumult mean?
    Dancing, flying, up and down.
    Still I saw the tassel's crown.
    Stalk and blade in beauty there,
    Never summer scene more fair!

    Soon the fierce gale died away,
    Calmer grew the August day.
    Lower, lower still, it fell,
    And the corn waves ceased to swell.
    Then, succeeding harsh wind's moan,
    Came the gentle rustling tone:

    "Last month made the stalk complete,
    Blade and joint and tassel neat;
    August, with its noontide heat,
    And its cooler air at night,
    Will develop—wondrous sight—
    Husk, and silk, and perfect ear,
    You can see them coming here.

    "Come, and if you do not know,
    I will tell you how they grow.
    First, the tiny shoots appear,
    They are coming, never fear,
    For the hour is very near,
    Yes, the earing-time is here.

    "From the shoot in time will spread,
    Bunch of long and silky thread;
    When the gentle breeze shall blow,
    On these filaments that rise,
    Pollen from the tassel flies—
    This the plan to fertilize
    Germs within the husk below.

    "Thus the ear begins to grow;
    In the husk are row on row
    Of the dainty shining grains.
    All the night and all the day,
    Dark or light, it finds a way,
    Growing best when sun's bright ray,
    Monarch of the cornfield, reigns.

    "Ripen soon the kernels bright,
    Through the day and through the night,
    Harder growing very fast;
    And when Autumn winds blow rude,
    Yellow ears through husks protrude,
    Growth of corn is done at last!

    "There the rusty blades are seen,
    Shorn of all their tender green;
    Soon the cutter's stalk-knife keen,
    Does its work among the corn.
    Ranged in shocks the long rows stand,
    Where the busker's nimble hand,
    When the frost shall smite the land,
    Will his task besfin some morn."

    Whether heard I then, or dreamed,
    Ask me not, but so it seemed,
    Sudden sob ran through the corn.
    Was it fancy; who can tell?
    Rustling leaves, as if there fell
    On their undertone a spell,
    Silent paused a space to mourn.

    But the sunlight's ray fell down
    On each giant's tasseled crown;
    Stirred the gentle breeze again.
    Through the field a tremor ran,
    And the well-known voice began,
    Speaking then in language plain:

    "Who has ever understood,
    Who can measure all the good,
    Wrought by means of golden corn?
    Wonder not I praise it here,
    For the stalk and blade and ear
    Furnish food the whole round year;
    And without them, far and near,
    Man and beast alike would mourn.

    "But my task is not complete;
    Shocked the corn and gone the heat,
    Gone the Summer's wondrous prime;
    There is something yet to tell
    Ere we pause and say farewell,
    Comes the merry husking-time.

    "Merry husking-time! what joy
    'Tis to happy farmer's boy!
    Leaves have fallen, trees are bare,
    Peace and plenty everywhere.
    In the orchard apples rare
    Hang from branches, here and there.

    "Frosty are the fields at morn;
    Hard and dry the grains of corn
    Which in even rows appear,
    Peeping from the yellow ear.
    Skies are bright, and very clear
    Is the autumn atmosphere.

    "Huskers must not lie and dream,
    Waiting for the sun's first gleam.
    Long before the break of day
    From their beds they rise; away
    To their labor hurry they;
    Theirs no time for pause or play.

    "Tasks at barn and farmhouse done,
    Breakfast eaten as the sun
    Rises, and his beams appear,
    Through morn's hazy atmosphere—
    Promptly, to the cornfield near,
    Hie the huskers, full of cheer.

    "Each unto his work must fly.
    See, the sun is rising high!
    Short the hours of daylight grow!
    Time is precious! Down the row
    Of the rustling shocks they go;
    Each upon the ground they throw.

    "Prone on earth each giant lies,
    And his task each husker plies.
    Stalks are spread so evenly
    That the practiced eye may see
    Where to find the golden ear,
    Rarest product of the year.

    "How the busy fingers fly,
    Seizing long stalks as they lie!
    Tearing withered husks away
    From the plump ears as they may;
    Deftly breaking each with turn
    Of the hand that huskers learn.

    "Grow the precious piles of corn
    With the progress of the morn.
    And the fodder on the ground,
    Stalk and blades and husks around,
    Into bundles huge are bound,
    While the merry shouts resound.

    "All the day the work goes on,
    What was well begun at dawn,
    Finished is ere sunlight's gone;
    To the barn the corn is drawn,
    And the shining, precious hoard,
    Safely in the crib is stored.

    "Such a crop is wealth untold,
    More than silver heaped, or gold.
    Is it not to-day, indeed,
    Miracle that fills such need?
    Man and beast alike would mourn
    Were it not for golden corn."

    Then the cornblades ceased to swell,
    And the voice to whisper fell,
    Solemn silence seemed to dwell,
    There was nothing more to tell.
    As the corn-song ended there—
    Stalk and blade a picture rare—
    Ne'er was summer scene so fair.

  14. My Stalk of Corn

    by Ellen P. Allerton

    Just a single stalk of corn,
    Nothing more;
    Was there ever a stalk of corn
    Cherished so before?

    On the window, where the sun
    Shines at noon,
    And at eve, the tender light
    Of the moon.

    Half a pint or so of soil—
    Hardly that,
    Half enough to till the crown
    Of baby's hat.

    This is it has to feed its life;
    This is is all.
    Yet I love this stalk of corn
    Best of all.

    Best of all my pets in green
    Thou a vine,
    By geraniums scented sweet,
    Doth entwine.

    And I pet it tenderly,
    This stalk of corn—
    Turn it kindly toward the pane
    Every morn.

    How it thanks me for its life,
    How it grows!
    In such thrift, its gratitude
    How it shows.

    Still I watch and water it,
    Though I know,
    The slender store of food it has
    Is wasting slow.

    Never shall the breezes wane
    Its yellow hair;
    Never tassle crown its top,
    Nor golden ear.

    Just so much it has to feed,
    Then must die;
    Who knows but that it may be so
    With you or I?

    We know not our stock of life,
    Great or small;
    But the one who keepeth us
    Knoweth all.

    We live on, a careless life,
    Or fiercely toil.
    While our only store may be
    Half a pint of soil.

    Let us, like this stalk of corn,
    Do our best,
    And to him who loveth us
    Leave the rest.

  15. The Corn Song

    by John Greanleaf Whittier (From Whittier's "Songs of Labor.") Notes.—8. According to the ancient fable, Apollo, the god of music, sowed the isle of Delos, his birthplace, with golden flowers, by the music of his lyre.

    Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!
    Heap high the golden corn!
    No richer gift has Autumn poured
    From out her lavish horn!

    Let other lands, exulting, glean
    The apple from the pine,
    The orange from its glossy green,
    The cluster from the vine;

    We better love the hardy gift
    Our rugged vales bestow,
    To cheer us, when the storm shall drift
    Our harvest fields with snow.

    Through vales of grass and meads of flowers
    Our plows their furrows made,
    While on the hills the sun and showers
    Of changeful April played.

    We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,
    Beneath the sun of May,
    And frightened from our sprouting grain
    The robber crows away.

    All through the long, bright days of June,
    Its leaves grew green and fair,
    And waved in hot midsummer's noon
    Its soft and yellow hair.

    And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves,
    Its harvest time has come;
    We pluck away the frosted leaves
    And bear the treasure home.

    There, richer than the fabled gift
    Apollo showered of old,
    Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
    And knead its meal of gold.

    Let vapid idlers loll in silk,
    Around their costly board;
    Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
    By homespun beauty poured!

    Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth
    Sends up its smoky curls,
    Who will not thank the kindly earth
    And bless our farmer girls!

    Then shame on all the proud and vain,
    Whose folly laughs to scorn
    The blessing of our hardy grain,
    Our wealth of golden corn!

    Let earth withhold her goodly root;
    Let mildew blight the rye,
    Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,
    The wheat field to the fly:

    But let the good old crop adorn
    The hills our fathers trod;
    Still let us, for his golden corn,
    Send up our thanks to God!

  16. The Wind in the Corn

    by Edith Franklin Wyatt

    Far away, far away, someone is going, there—
    Someone invisible, rider and horse:
    Now a sheaf, now a leaf, tipping and blowing, bear
    Naught of his tale to me, only his course.

    Riding through lowland corn, riding through highland corn,
    Flicking the furrows from seaboard to sea,
    Riding through shoreland, and river-locked island corn,
    Traveler, traveler, who can you be?

    Yellow the sundown. The bright-terraced valley-top
    Breathes all in silence: and, still, down the vale,
    Far, where the corn-furrows' gold-dappling alleys drop
    Answers the traveler, "Brief is my tale."

    "Long have I ridden by cornfield and moorland, now;
    Out of the bourn of the morning I came—
    Ridden the fields where the steeps and the shore-lands bow
    Heaped with earth's richnesses. Want is my name."

    Yellow the twilight. The plume-terraced valley-top
    Breathes forth its heart from the black fragrant loam.
    Traveler, when will your long, hungry journey stop?
    When will the bounty of earth be your home?

    Tall stands the corn on the lowlands and highlands, now:
    Full-fold and full-fold the bottom-lands leap
    Seaward. The shorelands, the tassel-flocked islands' prow,
    Wave, and close-serried soar prairie and steep.

    Thousand-rayed, thousand, the gold-dappling alleys swing,
    Comfort me—rock me to peace in their sweep:
    Some day, oh, some day, the horseman will hear them sing,
    "Drop your rein, traveler! Rest in my deep!"

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