A Tribute Of Grasses

To W. W. SERENE, vast head, with silver cloud of hair Lined on the purple dusk of death, A stern medallion, velvet set— Old Norseman, throned, not chained upon thy chair, Thy grasp of hand, thy hearty breath Of welcome thrills me yet As when I faced thee there! Loving my plain as thou thy sea, Facing the East as thou the West, I bring a handful of grass to thee,— The prairie grasses I know the best; Type of the wealth and width of the plain, Strong of the strength of the wind and sleet, Fragrant with sunlight and cool with rain, I bring it and lay it low at thy feet, Here by the eastern sea.