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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. |
