O little shells, so curious-convolute, so limpid-cold and voiceless, Will you not little shells to the tympans of temples held, Murmurs and echoes still call up, eternity’s music faint and far, Wafted inland, sent from Atlantica’s rim, strains for the soul of the prairies, Whisper’d reverberations, chords for the ear of the West joyously sounding, Your tidings old, yet ever new and untranslatable, Infinitesimals out of my life, and many a life, (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?

For 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.