NOT of the seething cities with their swarming human hives, Their fetid airs their reeking streets, their dwarfed and poisoned lives, Not of the buried yesterdays, but of the days to be, The glory and the gateway of the yellow West is she. The Northern Lights dance down her plains with soft and silvery feet, The sunrise gilds her prairies when the dawn and daylight meet; Along her level lands the fitful southern breezes sweep, And beyond her western windows the sublime old mountains sleep. The Redman haunts her portals, and the Paleface treads her streets, The Indian's stealthy footstep with the course of commerce meets, And hunters whisper vaguely of the half forgotten tales Of phantom herds of bison lurking on her midnight trails. Not hers the lore of olden lands, their laurels and their bays; But what are these, compared to one of all her perfect days? For naught can buy the jewel that upon her forehead lies— The cloudless sapphire Heaven of her territorial skies. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FEW RULES FOR BEGINNERS by KATHERINE MANSFIELD STREET-CRIES: 7. A SONG OF LOVE by SIDNEY LANIER EPITAPH IN A CHURCH-YARD IN CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA by AMY LOWELL TO AN EARLY DAFFODIL; SONNET by AMY LOWELL TUNICA PALLIO PROPRIOR by MARIANNE MOORE BALLADE OF DEAD FRIENDS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |