The flower-fed buffaloes of the
In the days of long ago,
Ranged where the locomotives
And the prairie flowers lie low:
The tossing, blooming, perfumed
Is swept away by wheat,
Wheels and wheels and wheels spin
In the spring that still is sweet.
But the flower-fed buffaloes of the
Left us long ago,
They gore no more, they bellow no more:—They trundle around the hills no more:—With the Blackfeet lying low,
With the Pawnee lying low.
