Now he goes on a long sleep.
The wind he listened to in the cornsilk and the tassels, the wind that combed his red beard zero mornings when the snow lay white on the yellow ears in the bushel basket at the corncrib,
The same wind will now blow over the place here where his hands must dream of Illinois corn.
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Cross the hands over the breast here–so.
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Wonder as of old things
Hangs over pasture and road.Lush in the lowland grasses riseAnd upland beckons to upland.The great strong hills are humble.