And you are the clipped velvet of the lawns Where Shropshire grows from Massachusetts sods, The grey Maine rocks⁠—and the war-painted dawns That break above the Garden of the Gods.

The prairie-schooners crawling toward the ore And the cheap car, parked by the station-door.

Where the skyscrapers lift their foggy plumes Of stranded smoke out of a stony mouth You are that high stone and its arrogant fumes, And you are ruined gardens in the South

And bleak New England farms, so winter-white Even their roofs look lonely, and the deep The middle grainland where the wind of night Is like all blind earth sighing in her sleep.

A friend, an enemy, a sacred hag With two tied oceans in her medicine-bag.