First Lines of John Grosvenor Wilson
A maiden sits with idle ball and skein,Dearest, to thee I dedicate the fruitEve o'er the sacred vale -- in joyous moodFrom the far frozenHope and Courage rigged his spars,Icicles hangIn the very blackest nightO voice of the people, now thunderOn the shore of the Monarch of LakesOne morn the prairie reached afar,Where marbles and mounds lie togetherWho are these that gather in the green moonshine