Deeply the buffalo trod it Beating it barren as brass; Now the soft rain-fingers sod it, Green to the crest of the pass. Backward it slopes into history; Forward it lifts into mystery. Here is but wind in the grass. Backward the millions assemble, Bannered with dust overhead, Setting the prairie a-tremble Under the might of their tread. Forward the sky-line is glistening And to the reach of our listening Drifts not a sound from the dead. Quick, or the swift seasons fade it! Look on his works while they show. This is the bison. He made it. Thus say the old ones who know. This is the bison—a-pondering Vague as the prairie wind wandering Over the green or the snow. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLACK MAMMY by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 38 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING LULLABY OF A LOVER by GEORGE GASCOIGNE IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 101 by ALFRED TENNYSON |