Country of broad-backed horses, stone houses and long, green meadows, Where Getty came with his ox-team to found a steady town And the little trains of my boyhood puffed solemnly up the Valley Past the market-squares and the lindens and the Quaker meeting-house.

Penn stood under his oak with a painted sachem beside him, The market-women sold scrapple when the first red maples turned; When the buckeyes slipped from their sheaths, you could gather a pile of buckeyes, Red-brown as old polished boots, good to touch and hold in the hand.