Born on the breast of the prairie, she smiles to her sire--the sun, <br />Robed in the wealth of her wheat-lands, gift of her mothering soil, <br />Affluence knocks at her gateways, opulence waits to be won. <br />Nuggets of gold are her acres, yielding and yellow with spoil, <br />Dream of the hungry millions, dawn of the food-filled age, <br />Over the starving tale of want her fingers have turned the page; <br />Nations will nurse at her storehouse, and God gives her grain for wage.<br /><br />Emily Pauline Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/brandon/
