Kildeer
Down through the blue-grass, running in long billows,
Heaped by the west wind, past the Lattimore,
Bordered by cattails, by the green willows,
Under a sky where white clouds soar;
Down to the pasture pond, by the lush morasses,
Beyond the nodding clover—
Then suddenly a cry, a flutter from the grasses—
Upsprings the startled plover,
Crying "kildeer," "kildeer," with wings interweaving,
Making parentheses against the open sky,
Voice of the June hours, for the April grieving,
Soaring and dipping, lost to the eye
Fellow to the winds, and to the green flags kindred,
Messenger of the prairie, and spirit of the hills,
Lost in the levels, hastening unhindered,
Soul of the landscape, heart that mourns and trills.
What a lonely melody, speaking the pioneer,
Winged grief that startles, and dies far away;
When his wings have vanished still you hear "kildeer"
Over dimming acres where the sky is gray.