Hands

Today I was frightened by a waving of hands . . .

All day the wind blew west on Illinois All day the sky was ribbed with blue and grey And met the prairie like a folding arch, But in the tall grey prairie grass There was a sad waving of hands. Hands there were in a wistful mist Red hand, brown hand, hand of the white man A history a legend of hands in the tall grey prairie grass.

The prairie has you now, You men who swept her like a wind You men who darkened her like a cloud shadow Your hands are soft with mold. The prairie has you now . . .

So let me know when you have come to stay You strong and eager people, let me know. All day the wind blows west on Illinois.

Today I was frightened by a waving of hands. Into the grass and under the grass they waved me Beckoned me—a mist of fingers over a thousand years: "Not you, you shadow-caster, You of the lean white nervous hands, not yet ; We, too, are the hands of men who came, who conquered, We are the hands of men gone down In a wilderness of sunshine A heartache of sunshine A cataract of wind in this here-to-sky of grass."