Two hundred long miles and never a tree,
O, nothing but plains all scorched by the sun!
The buffalo’s trails one freely may see,
Which over the billowing ridges run,
And here the Indian hunted at will,
And slaughtered and wasted the bison wild,
The heaps of its bleached bones bear witness still
How wanton was he, the prairie’s child.
Yes, here is a wildness which bids my soul
To saddle my pony and ride away,
And follow its weird and mysterious call
To freedom complete, if just for a day,
To follow the paths where the bison did roam,
To list to the coyotes and prairie-dog’s bark,
But thankful at night for the lone settler’s home
And a gleam of his light in the dark.