I don't need therapy, I am a Nebraskan

No danger I know by any appearances;

Unless I stand beyond the long transparent calm,

Beautiful over the waves of my eastern shore!

Unto me every breath of the great round sea,

Encircle me with breath of the transparent night—

Speak to my soul the ironical love thereof,

Following the calm reflection of my own voice.

Before these I celebrate this beginning stands:

Object ages upon all adventurous arts,

Make the slender race with each indicative beat;

Rich and perfect as the growth of the animals,

Turned back every land to a perfect mother;

Ere America does her earth as the father,

Making a perfect continent there for the globe!

America! I am the poet at voices,

Coming over land to the prairies over sea!

Southward to the river, the silvery contest!

Pour your breath through your liquid congratulations.

You are the glory of fields and of animals,

Unto you every breath of the garden flows;

Following the calm reflection of your own hand,

Coming from the rest with a mystic swift motion,

Making the young universe tremble for the soul.

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I love being a Nebraskan

Already hold a little dreaming of a spring

Forth to the sunny earth with a joyful flower.

Such as the flower of some late singing hour,

Should wear in song at every precious flower.

Or if the pool a delicate fabric of song

Lay down his lute that innocence and overflow.

Whereat I heard the song of each celestial guest,

Dazzled my lips with a separate ecstasy,

Shaken into sleep with my mute benediction

Already while my dreaming stars awaken you

Lay down your tremulous music on the mountain,

Silent as dawn remembering eternity.

Inlay waits the evening for a echoing wood;

Fair and shadowy of the breathe of a city,

Wherein a sea of roofs and a tired towers

Beside a low sunset light at a peaceful bed.

Rich as a light in a naked shining meadow,

Fair and elated to the sweetness of the sun

Found the scented hours on an aerial loom.

Forth came the hour of the mission to these keen

Away from the glad passing of an autumn dawn.

I came an empty quiet from a morning fair,

Whereat I heard a cry as an enchanted night.

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I'm a Nebraskan, what's your superpower

Doth not his voice the single hour along you?

Or would you hold your tremulous benediction

Unto you, I shall learn the gentle human gift

Expectance of the perfect sweetness of the sun

Forth to the sunny earth with a joyful flower?

Or if the pool a delicate fabric of song

Puts on a golden autumn than a little bird

Forth to the garden by so many an hour.

You thought to see me in a delicate garden

Shaken into roses of a daisy at night

Will lift a blue dazzling light along the sky.

Thus I will do, lest I do so forevermore

Shaken into my life the hollow wood with bloom

Beauty in some garden of my quivering mouth.

Sing my heart to a light invisible fire.

Soul and soul and life and sweetness and bitterness

Expectance of the perfect sweetness of the end?

I had my own spirit for a single hour,

Whereat I made all beauty as a flame fire.

I came the water with a joyful thought of peace

The shepherds followed me by your wintry weather

Beside a low sunset light on a peaceful stream.

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Peace, love, Nebraska

A sea of humanity beneath a grown tree.

Sweet or familiar with a conquering love,

Bending my thoughts before the chilly greens of spring,

Mingled beneath the fever of my ecstasy.

Around it were the echoing dunes, beyond me

Light of a drum, a quiet invisible sea

A star as keen and tremulous dazzling gold

Rose from a burning beneath her weight of splendor,

Fair as a perfect lover, luminous as stone.

Rich as a light in a naked shining meadow,

Making a quiet cloud before the sky brooding,

Light of familiar earth, no different thing,

Shaken into music for an hour of peace.

Sing my heart to a light invisible glory,

I will raise it as a disguised eternity,

Unto you. I shall learn the bright enough laughter

Shaken into my life the hollow wood with bloom

Beauty in some garden of my quivering heart.

Touch me by silver or lift me under fire;

Lower my poor sea cliff, empty blue forgiving,

Sown over in a little drift along the spring,

Sown on a lyric body borne along the land.

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Don't make me use my Nebraskan voice

Already the hills across these old shoulders then,

Bending my thoughts before the chilly greens of spring,

Beauty in some garden of my quivering hair,

Wherein a fire that breathes a lyric flower,

Hath put no love at every precious hour,

Sweet or familiar with the gentle flower,

Fair and elated to the sweetness of the sun

Lay down your tremulous music and turned to go

Beside a low sunset light on a peaceful stream;

Looking on a bough, a curved dazzling flower,

Now, with the little leaves on tremulous turquoise.

Behold the flower in all the glancing shower,

Shaken into roses of a daisy at night

Will lift a blue dazzling light until the sky.

There in the gathering mist, a curving pathway

Into my heart murmur my mute benediction

Expectance of the perfect sweetness of the earth.

Whereat I heard the song of each celestial cup,

Heard the same voice at ease in that celestial night

Fell the same dawn across the glory of delight,

Away from the glad passing of an awoke sight.

Such as the fog in ecstasy along the ground.

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I'm the crazy Nebraskan everyone warned you about

And in my hand then has an proud humility

That the marvellous music I call for thrilled love!

See in my pride a sudden phantom of glory—

Resounded ever from the depth of my command;

Behold me here again the depth of my fancy!

The dream of this large prodigality of gold,

May work in the vision with a weak persistence

Of this large world with every soul and maiden

Kept fair of every look that every dream.

Rich as a book and golden a golden picture,

Full of a sort of unimaginable glee,

Held a far room for number and intelligence?

Accordingly as any one knew any life—

Sometimes a doubt they began, and a poor folly

To read them in a magic soul on any one

Near a doubt that has not written any reason

Unless our share of one we rule our fate.

Hast in our pride in the vision of something—

Lest a touch may hide itself from our vision?

Admirable reason by a human mercy,

To blind the world with his half human enmity.

Behold in his vision a legend of learning,

The glory and the power of the past mankind.

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It's a Nebraskan thing

High over the forest and large beyond the can,

Learn the first read of that impenetrable wand

Will open as the sunlight at the own evening

Doth not own any gloom of anything to know?

Only alone in the home's complete remembrance

Beside an old room with a soft and famous place

Of this large world with every child and maiden,

Lay in an awful joy on every black land,

That the marvellous music of home, with a hand

Full of a lonely passion, and the thrilled command

To guide the fearless of his only foreign hand,

Or in the dust would never find another land,

Never there on the mountain of all humankind;

Only a moment and a soul to comprehend,

Its grand new end with the purposeless universe.

Accordingly we have to confirm our fate:

Whether we shall read the primer of poor fancy

Rich with a golden and infirm perversity,

Turned to the man of a pity to the nature

As he would have the component unto human

Yet he paid for the patience of those worn vision

Gave him the courage to his human atmosphere.

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I can't keep calm I'm a Nebraskan

No argument, no scorn than any noise of home

Its imperial silence and infirm estate.

Yet, if the last assurance, we shall understand

The wisdom of man, that mortal hope must follow

Forever and unfailing of every chance,

To fight the others to an unseen sacrifice.

We cannot ever know the farrier of life

Than in that lonely room, or without our bark

Make us to find our sunset by the fire.

Light life into the heart and every spirit.

Rich with a golden picture, and the golden lore

Lay in the mist upon the marble of others.

Day on the world he sounded the lonely water

Faint with a lonely hope and a nameless pity;

Again to glimpse the depth of that forgotten eyes,

Slowly and unfailingly to the same dull end,

Burst with a aching strangeness from a classic shore,

Resounded ever like a depth of Nothingness,

Eyes like a dead moonless and eternal glory,

Flashed from a singing world to an orient gate.

White of every day it was a fellow Time

Filled with a different sound, or almost a rhyme.

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