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278 (For not my life and years alone I give—all, all I give,)

These waifs from the deep, cast high and dry,

Wash'd on America's shores? 



the lands and for these passionate days and for myself,

Now I awhile retire to thee O soil of autumn fields,

Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to thee,

Answering the pulses of thy sane and equable heart,

Tuning a verse for thee.

O earth that hast no voice, confide to me a voice,

O harvest of my lands—O boundless summer growths,

O lavish brown parturient earth—O infinite teeming womb,

A song to narrate thee.

Ever upon this stage,

Is acted God's calm annual drama,

Gorgeous processions, songs of birds,

Sunrise that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul,

The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical, strong waves,

The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees,

The liliput countless armies of the grass,

The heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages,

The scenery of the snows, the winds' free orchestra,

The stretching light-hung roof of clouds, the clear cerulean and the silvery fringes,

The high dilating stars, the placid beckoning stars,

The moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald meadows,

The shows of all the varied lands and all the growths and products.

Fecund America—to-day,

Thou art all over set in births and joys!

Thou groan'st with riches, thy wealth clothes thee as a swathing-garment,

Thou laughest loud with ache of great possessions,

A myriad-twining life Hke interlacing vines binds all thy vast demesne, 