Classic Poem

The prairies flaunt with grain on every hand;
The cornfields' emerald banners proudly flare
Like flags of triumph on the summer air;
The orchards in their fruited fulness stand;
Each breeze with harvest promises is bland;
The lushness of a million meadows fair
Exhales its odorous blessing everywhere,
And careless plenty lolls through all the land.

But strong men starve, and dying infants draw
From breasts of dying mothers, whose wan looks,
Pain-disciplined, meet death's without a fear, —
To hunger's eye death loses all his awe,
And here, ye deep-browed writers of long books,
Look ye! there's stuff for many a folio here.