Wind of the south from the wide prairie, Mesquite barren and cactus lean, Where the fleet herds browse and the coyote wary Pierces the night with a note too keen; And the brown plain’s grass grows all between. Fields where the wild sage blows and billows, Purple waves on a sea of jade; And the bending cottonwoods touch the willows, And the water holes glimmer in light and shade. Then swinging up from a land of drouth, And on by the bayous flowing south, There by the wandering river’s mouth, White is the sod with the cotton blossom, Whiter the lint that has broken its pod And lies like snow on the sad earth’s bosom, Fresh and fair from the hand of God. Wind of the north from the long lakes sweeping Down to the meadows and hills of corn, Over the creeks where the perch are leaping, And the mill wheels hum at the break of morn; Hills where the clover is newly shorn; And sharply pungent as old-world gorse is The hay that the wagons have hurried home; And under the steady feet of the horses The furrows grow in the loose black loam. And ever the amber tassels seize The wings of every riotous breeze To fling gonfalons of golden sleaze, Silken and soft, to the earth’s far borders: “August heat but hastens the days When the hungry herds and the empty larders Shall all be filled with the Indian’s maize.” Wind of the east--ah, east wind blowing Long, long leagues from a land o’erseas; Empty hands that can know no sowing, Passionate pleading hands are these-- Palms outstretched to us over the seas; Ah, the heart of France is a thing to cherish! But her werewolf, Hunger, cannot be slain Till out of our largess, lest she perish, We hasten the caravels of blessed grain. Till the sea-shark’s teeth forever are drawn, And the dread great guns are stilled at the dawn, We must hold high courage and carry on. So winds of the north, south, west, your treasure-- Corn and cattle and golden grain-- Shall crowd the ships to their fullest measure, And the bread thus cast will return again! “WHAT THINK YE?” W. A. BRISCOE IN THE UNITED EMPIRE MAGAZINE (Journal of the Royal Colonial Institute, London) What are we fighting for, men of my race, And the best of us dying for? For wealth--or profit--or power--or fame? Or a statesman’s lust? or a monarch’s name? Or for aught that our sons of sons could blame Did we throw the dice of war? Why are ye weeping, sisters of mine, With a mien so proud and brave? Do ye weep because of the utter woe? Are ye proud because ye would have it so, Though Fate should have dealt you the final blow And there’s nothing to mark the grave?