Hannibal Hamlin Garland (September 14, 1860 – March 4, 1940) was an American novelist, poet, essayist, and short story writer. He is best known for his fiction involving hard-working Midwestern farmers.
Born in West Salem, Wisconsin, he lived on various Midwestern farms throughout his young life, but settled in Boston, Massachusetts, in 1884 to pursue a career in writing. His first ... more »
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Hamlin Garland Poems
Somewhere, in deeps Of tangled, ripening wheat, A little prairie-chicken cries-
Do You Fear The Wind
Do you fear the force of the wind, The slash of the rain? Go face them and fight them, Be savage again.
Within my hand I hold A piece of lichen-spotted stone— Each fleck red-gold— And with closed eyes I hear the moan
The Greeting of the Roses
WE had been long in mountain snow, In valleys bleak, and broad, and bare, Where only moss and willows grow,
On The Mississippi
Through wild and tangled forests The broad, unhasting river flows- Spotted with rain-drops, gray with night; Upon its curving breast there goes
The Gift of Water
“IS water nigh?” The plainsmen cry, As they meet and pass in the desert grass. With finger tip
At last there came The sudden fall of frost, when Time Dreaming through russet September days Suddenly awoke, and lifting his head, strode
From the great trees the locusts cry In quavering ecstatic duo-a boy Shouts a wild call-a mourning dove In the blue distance sobs-the wind
And all night long we lie in sleep, Too sweet to sigh in, or to dream, Unnoting how the wild winds sweep,
THEY rise to mastery of wind and snow; They go like soldiers grimly into strife To colonize the plain. They plough and sow,
The Meadow Lark
A BRAVE little bird that fears not God, A voice that breaks from the snow-wet clod With prophecy of sunny sod,
A COLD coiled line of mottled lead, He lies where grazing cattle tread, And lifts a fanged and spiteful head.
The Toil of the Trail
What have I gained by the toil of the trail? I know and know well. I have found once again the lore I had lost In the loud city's hell.
I SAW these dreamers of dreams go by, I trod in their footsteps a space; Each marched with his eyes on the sky,
Quotationsmore quotations »
''There is no gilding of setting sun or glamor of poetry to light up the ferocious and endless toil of the farmers' wives.''Hamlin Garland (1860-1940), U.S. author. "Melons and Early Frost," Boy Life on the Prairie (1899).
Comments about Hamlin Garland
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Somewhere, in deeps
Of tangled, ripening wheat,
A little prairie-chicken cries-
Lost from its fellows, it pleads and weeps.
Meanwhile, stained and mangled,
With dust-filled eyes,
The unreplying mother lies
Limp and bloody at the sportsman's feet.