Stamped along the endless roadway
Printed by the turning wheel,
Pressed its image on the memory
Of the settlers coming back,
Who, when questioned by the searcher,
Told him that the telltale track
Had begun to veer to westward
After crossing by the way
Leading up the North Platte River,
Where the sand wastes stretch away.


19

As he crossed this barren prairie's
Sweeping waste of poverty,
Billy paused beside the cripple
Of a wind-torn twisted tree,
Standing there, marooned forever,
Where its hapless seed had blown,
Miles on miles from forest neighbor,
Struggling out its life alone.
Here he stopped, with head uncovered,
Conscious of a strange appeal,
Yielding to the voiceless longing
Human hearts are bound to feel
When their lot is isolation,
And a field of sterile soil
Dwarfs and twists the struggling spirit
As the body bends with toil.