While turning furrows on a Kansas prairie,|
Cares half imaginary
Come trooping through my brain, then skip away
Like antelopes at play.
All day I watch the furrow-slices slide
Along the mould-board steel;
But when night comes I feel
Along my brain strange restful fancies glide.
Although my home may be a humble shanty,
With fittings rude and scanty,
Each night a kind magician comes to see,
And hand the world to me:
I see a grand cathedral; on a hill
I note a Moorish tower,
And orange trees in flower --
It is the graceful city of Seville.
The evening lights upon the ripples twinkle,
I hear the mule-bells tinkle,
And organs peal, and twittering mandolins,
As fragrant night begins.
I see Giralda, in dissolving views,
And purple shadows fade
In glorious brocade;
I watch the twilight of the Andaluz.
I hand the world back to my necromancer,
And make to him no answer.
Next day I hear the rattle just the same
Of clevis and of hame;
But when night comes, emerging from the dark
I see the sunrise smile
Upon the Campanile,
And bronze the flying lion of St. Mark.
I gaze on ducal palaces adorning
The Grand Canal, at morning;
I view the ancient trophies that have come
Torn from Byzantium;
I see what colors Tintoretto's were;
Upon the mole I hear
The gaudy gondolier,
Then -- hand the world back to my sorcerer.
The griefs that flock like rabbits in a warren
To me are wholly foreign.
No help, no cheer, no sympathy I ask;
I'm equal to my task.
Though small my holdings when the sun may shine,
When evening comes my cares
Steal from me unawares,
And then the earth I love so much is mine.