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by Irene Welch Grissom In the light of a blazing sun. An idle wind goes drifting down The dusty street, where children run And shout, and play their joyous games. There is no beauty to be seen: Around frame buildings still remain Stray boards and bricks; there stands a team All wet with sweat, with shaggy limb. Their sun-burned master wears a smile For this raw town means much to him. It cuts the haul, by many miles, Of crops grown on his fertile lands. It brings world markets to his door. Where that new depot lonely stands His eyes see beauty that is more Sublime to him than marble halls That long freight train just pulling in Fills him with joy; he loudly calls A greeting to the crew, and grins At their response he dimly hears Through clanging bells and grinding wheels. The sounds are music to his ears; And standing there contentment steals Through every chamber of his mind. For that unpainted prairie town He sees a future great unwind. He casts his vision far on down Through years to come, and sees paved streets And noble trees, great, gray stone blocks And countless homes loom through the heat. A kingdom lies with doors unlocked. [IRENE WELCH GRISSOM, Author of "The Passing of the Sagebrush, etc."] |
