The Growing Corn
By Frederick J. Atwood
Upon a thousand hills the corn
Stands tall and rank and glossy green;
Its broad leaves stir at early morn,
And dewy diamonds drop between.
A myriad banners wave o’erhead,
And countless silken pennons fly;
The tasseled plumes bend low, ‘t is said,
And only silken ears know why.
Those bending plumes—those upturned ears—
Methinks it is the old, old story!
Dame Nature still, with rapture hears
The song she heard in Eden’s glory.
And so is wrought this miracle
Of life and growth unto perfection,—
A mystery that none may tell,
Save that God gives to it direction.
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