The Poet's Town. [John G. Neihardt]

I

'Mid glad green miles of tillage

And fields where cattle graze,

A prosy little village,

You drowse away the days.

And yet -- a wakeful glory

Clings round you as you doze;

One living lyric story

Makes music of your prose.

Here once, returning never,

The feet of song have trod;

And flashed -- Oh, once forever! --

The singing Flame of God.