The wide, wide prairies are ravished now
Of their harvest of golden grain,
The fields late opened by the plow
Await the autumn rain.
On plain and hill the golden-rod
Flecks all the green with gold,
While brown and sere is the prairie sod,
And dark is the upturned mould.
Now soon will the hand of the sower come
To scatter again the grain,
For the bringing of next year’s harvest-home
When the seasons turn again.
Ella B. Martin
The Kiote, August/September 1900