Color in the Wheat by Hamlin Garland

Like liquid gold 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. 

Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky, 
Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea, 
The vast plain flames on the dazzled eye 
Under the fierce sun’s alchemy. 
The slow hawk stoops 
To his prey in the deeps; 
The sunflower droops 
To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps— 
Then swirling in dazzling links and loops, 
A riot of shadow and shine, 
A glory of olive and amber and wine, 
To the westering sun the colors run 
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. 

O glorious land! My western land, 
Outspread beneath the setting sun! 
Once more amid your swells, I stand, 
And cross your sod-lands dry and dun. 
I hear the jocund calls of men 
Who sweep amid the ripened grain 
With swift, stern reapers; once again 
The evening splendor floods the plain, 
The crickets’ chime 
Makes pauseless rhyme, 
And toward the sun, 
The colors run 
Before the wind’s feet 
In the wheat!