Geography
by Eleanor Farjeon
The Spinning Earth
I Hear America Singing
Pastures of Plenty
Buffalo Dusk
Niagara
Dakota Wheat Field
Knoxville, Tennessee
Coney
The earth, they say,
spins round and round.
It doesn't look it
from the ground,
and never makes
a spinning sound.
And water never
swirls and swishes
from oceans full
of dizzy fishes,
and shelves don't lose
their pans and dishes.
And houses don't go whirling by,
or puppies swirl around the sky,
or robins spin instead of fly.
It may be true
what people say
about one spinning
night and day . . .
but I keep wondering, anyway.
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of merchants, each one singing his as it should be
blithe and strong.
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or
leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the
deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter
singing as he stands.
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the
morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or the young wife
at work, or of the girl sewing and washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day - - at night the party of
young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
It's a mighty hard road that my poor hands have hoed,
My poor feet have travelled a hot dusty road.
Out of your dust bowl and westward we roll,
Through deserts so hot and your mountains so cold.
I've wandered all over your green growling land,
Wherever your crops are I've lent you my hand,
On the edge of your cities you'll see me and then,
I come with the dust and I'm gone with the wind.
California, Arizona, I've worked on your crops,
Then north up to Oregon to gather your hops,
Dig beets from your ground, I cut grapes from your vines,
To set on your table that light sparklin' wine.
Green Pastures of plenty from dry desert ground,
From the Grand Coulee dam where the water runs down,
Ev'ry State of this Union us migrants have been,
We come with the dust and we're gone with the wind.
It's always we ramble that river and I,
All along your green valleys I'll work till I die,
I'll travel this road until death sets me free,
'Cause my Pastures of plenty must always be free.
It's a mighty hard road that my poor hands have hoed,
My poor feet have travelled this hot dusty road,
On the edge of your cities you'll see me and then,
I come with the dust and I'm gone with the wind.
The buffaloes are gone.
And those who saw the buffaloes are gone
Those who saw the buffaloes by thousands and how they pawed the prairie sod
into dust with their hoof, their great heads down pawing on in a great
pageant of dusk,
Those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
And the buffaloes are gone.
The tumblers of the rapids go white, go gerren
go changing over the gray, the brown, the rocks,
The fight of the water, the stones,
the fight makes a foam laughter
before the last look over the long slide
down the spread of a sheen in the straight fall,
Then the grow, the chutter,
down under the boom and the muffle,
the hoo hoi deep,
the hoo hoi down,
this is Niagara
Like liquid god the wheat-field lies,
A marvel of yellow and russet and green,
That ripples and runs, that floats and flies,
With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen,
That play in the golden hair of a girl, -
A ripple of amber - - a flare
Of light sweeping after - - a curl
In the hollows like swirling feet
Of fairy waltzers, the colors run
To the western sun
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.
I always like summer
best
you can eat fresh corn
from daddy's garden
and okra
and greens
and cabbage
and lots of
barbecue
and buttermilk
and homemade ice-cream
at the church picnic
and listen to
gospel music
outside
at the church
homecoming
and go to the mountains with
your grandmother
and go barefooted
and be warm
all the time
not only when you go to bed
and sleep.
There's hot corn
And franks.
There's the boardwalk
With lots of games,
With chances
To win or lose.
There's the sun.
Underneath the boardwalk
It's cool,
And the sand is salty.
The beach is
Like a fruitstand of people,
Big and little,
Red and white,
Brown and yellow.
There's the sea
With high green waves.
And after,
There's hot corn
And franks.
Last modified: March 2, 2017. All rights reserved.
* These works are the intellectual property of the authors and appear here for use in thematic classroom learning environments by practitioners.