Where oaks once grew.

Power plants displace our cornfields

On that lovely land.

The breeze roughly sidles and bends

Over the purling brooks,

And all the mockingbirds hush

As the day droops.

Wailing moans heard everywhere

By countless orphans of the east,

Longing for a lofty peace,

Never knowing what fate conceives.

Neither chilly blizzards

Nor scorching sun,

Can lay a trap under its debris.

For those who learned too late, perhaps,

How to defy the pull of the sand.