IN SOUTH DAKOTA.

IN SOUTH DAKOTA.
393.4

I stand on ashore where the waves come in-
On the shore of a ruffled sea-
And the sweet perfume of the clover’s bloom
Is borne on the winds to me.

But there’e never a splash of a silver ore,
And there’s never a captain’s hall,
And never a vessel has floundered there,
No matter how flerce the gale.

And never a sea-gull, of tireless wing
Wheels over this sun-kissed sea;
Nor curlew’s cry, as it scurries by,
Has ever come back to me.

But the sky-lark sings o’er the gusty waves-
Aye, sinks in the waves from sight.
With never a fear for her loved ones dear,
And she nestles them close at night.

And I wade far out from the grassy shore,
Where the curling white-caps beat,
And I love right well to watch each swell
Breast deep, in a field of wheat.
-Eugene Clay Ferguson,